James and the Journey
by Blacklabel
Summary: It is said that a man stands tall in his place when it's taken him time to get there. Perhaps that explains, then, the Commodore's stiff stature... New chapter 05 OCTOBER
1. An Officer's Funeral

**James and the Journey  
**_gold borrowed from Disney, silver spun by Blacklabel_

**G**rey skies and drizzle were not unusual conditions when sailing the Irish Sea, but on such an already dismal day, made dark more by the burial ceremony than the clouds, they did naught to console the younger brother of the deceased military man. Despondent was the lad as he stared silently ahead and anywhere but at the white sailcloth wherein he knew his brother's empty cask lay. Lieutenant Brian Douglas Norrington had been an upright man—a gallant officer of the King's Royal Navy with a smile as bright as the white of his uniform. To think of him _lifeless_, just _laying_ there… young James shuddered, not wanting to think of it at all.

Instead, he considered the weather.

It was a touch of cruelty that on a day when the sun would've most warmed him, James was made to sit under an overcast sky unforgiving of the chill that pervaded his weary bones. Cruelty had been keeping with him, it seemed. The entire voyage, from London's foggy dockyards in an upward arc to the bitter Irish Sea, had been unkind to him. For three very long days the sun had not shone down once to warm him. By the toll of the twelve bells that signaled the start of the ceremony he'd not wanted to commence at all, James was cut by the cold.

_So bleak it was_, he thought, _so very bleak_.

Guilt crept under his skin to tinge it and he forced the impudent thought from his head. The very audacity of bemoaning the weather when it was that his dearly departed brother would never again see the sun shine! It was not fair, James chastised himself, to fret over such frivolities in such a situation.

The rest of the congregation, those there on behalf of mourning his brother's passing, were rapt with the words that droned from the mouth of the mariner's chaplain. "…and pray thee that the Lord Our God be with him yet aft that hour has long been passed…"

Fore he glanced at the uniformed man standing with the Bible open o'er the death shroud. The Lord's gold cross upon the red vellum burned hot under James' gaze. It seemed to him, as did the words he'd just heard, a mockery.

_If the Lord Our God had been with my brother in the first place_, he thought, _Brian would not have had to walk through the valley of the shadow of death_.

"…for what good is God…"

"What good is God indeed," he muttered.

Scowling, James looked to his trembling hands where shook the open book of hymns. The staves of music quivered, black inked notes dancing dots before his eyes. It was not long until they, and the printed words of sorrow, blurred. A swift wave of nausea roiled in his stomach and, swallowing hard, he snapped the book shut.

It was at that moment that the chaplain's words faded away. The slow tap of heels on deck forced James' gaze up and he blanched upon seeing his brother's superior approaching him. What the protocol for such an occasion was he did not know. Bristling at the thought that they had all neglected duty of preparing him for such, James clenched his jaw and stood on his hesitant feet to greet the Captain with a wavering salute.

Captain Jensen of the _HMS Godspeed_ stopped before him. Staunch as the starch white of his uniform, the commanding officer hesitated. It was then that James saw the man had something in his hand. He watched as the captain pinned the badge on his coat. Were the sun in the sky the medal would have shone but it was not and so the Seal of Honour was as lackluster as James felt.

"Honour, young James," said a voice not as sharp as a commanding officer should sound, "is what Lieutenant Brian Douglas Norrington lived to uphold, and died to sustain. That honour, on this day, he passes to you."

It was with that that the man returned his salute and turned abruptly on his heel to bark an order to the six lines of redcoats flanking the quarterdeck. Snapping to attention, they startled James as much as the next command did. He watched, unable not to, as both front lines of the squadron clicked their muskets and fired into the air. The loud report of the muskets hurt his ears but James did not cover them. The second line's tribute shook him but he refused to tremble. The third and final shot saw the grate under his brother's death shroud released. The heavy sack of sail dropped through it. It was when he heard the splash that the sting in James' eyes stung worst of all.

Long after most of the mourners had shuffled by to pay respects and offer condolences, James sat staring out at the calm water that was as grey as the sky. He stared out to sea—the sea that had claimed his brother—and he found, with a thumping heart, that he wanted nothing more than to leap over the railing. _To the depths of the ocean_, he thought, _to the depths of the ocean I will plunge to take back what she's taken from me_.

Unfortunately, however, young James' feet were all the more hesitant.

_Carry me to the ledge_, he willed them.

Their heels slid apart.

_I must dive to the depths of the sea_, he pleaded.

Ankles, rebellious, crossed resolute.

James frowned down at them. Truth be told, he was quite put out by their reluctance to aid him in his quest. All he wanted was the sea to give back what she'd taken. All he wanted was to plead the sea recede her grey waters that had come between he and his beloved, belated brother. All he wanted, he thought, heart hammering, was…

Out from the ship rose a grey swell. It washed in silence. Then all was once more still.

All he wanted, he thought, rue in his retrospect, was useless. It was death, not the depths, that had separated he and his brother. It was death brought on by stinking rotten pirates that had taken them all from him.


	2. Gather and Gape

**A**s most matters of James' life tended to turn for the worst, the journey home was no contradiction to that sentiment. Sometime aft turning southeast, the _HMS Godspeed_'s sails slackened. According to the military men rushing about, it was as if the ship had been 'put in irons' by another. But, they mused, it was more a case that there was not wind enough to be their own, nor sufficient for another ship coming up behind to steal. Fortunately there was no other ship. Unfortunately, as James found to his immense displeasure, there was no wind either, and there was, according to the two uniformed men nearby, no telling when there would be.

"Sitting ducks we'll be for a bit," said one.

The other frowned. "Seems that way."

"Far be it from me to interrupt this most," suggested a third voice, "_fascinating_ navigational discussion, but mayhaps we should make the most of circumstance."

James did not need to turn to know whose fast clip it had been, but he did, as did the men, nonetheless. With some bit of contempt he watched the gent most good company didn't keep cross the deck. Jonathan Starling hadn't been far off enough to warrant his coming closer but it seemed such had not occurred to the young cartographer who stepped too close, to James and the Navymen, for comfort.

One of them, the one who had frowned, frowned all the more. A glance he spared for James before turning his attention back to the gent leaning so casually toward him. "Make the _most_ of it?"

"A man's dead," put in the other.

"Ahhh, but we're not."

For a reason that young James could not figure, that answer angered him. Red that wasn't shame colored his face. Though his hands fisted and he glared hotly in Starling's direction, he did not speak. If there was ever a time that he did not trust himself to speak with the respect his family would no doubt expect him to, it was then. Further infuriating was the way that the man turned to him and, worse, the kindness in his dark eyes usually agleam with mischief.

"Young Jamesy, for example," he said, "would do as well to realize that."

James clenched his jaw, feeling even less likely not to spit spiteful words at Starling, and looked away.

All about the deck mixed the mourners with the Navymen. For all the grief they'd expressed to James they certainly did not show it. If it were not for the severe black of dress no one would've been the wiser that a man's funeral was the occasion. In fact, for the easy way they sauntered to and fro in social circles, it looked as if the journey upon the _HMS Godspeed_ had been nothing more than a pleasure cruise.

James supposed it should not have surprised him. He supposed it should not have surprised him in the least. Afterall, it had been Brian himself who'd once remarked upon the quality of 'good company' kept by their parents.

_Always the first to cry your tears_, he'd said, _and the next to make you shed them_.

As James glanced about the assembly of societyfolk, he realized just what Brian had meant. All of them, one face to the next, had been wrought with sorrow when they'd expressed sympathy to him and not hours later there was not one tear among them. James' own eyes, however, stung enough for every dry eye aboard.

Blinking away the blur, James frowned. With renewed focus he looked to the people that had supposedly been good friends and better to his parents. Nearest him was a group of womenfolk, all wide eyes and gossip. Not far from them, and casting imperious glances their way at every giggle or snerk, sat three he knew by name. They seemed to disapprove of the petty talk amongst the other women, the Ladies Witter, Munsen, and Starling did. Their husbands stood nearby—well, Witter and Munsen at least. The King's own Pilot Major Starling was, at the moment, strolling away from the two of them. It seemed he was making his way toward one of the uniformed men but a most fastidious Lord Littleton quickly intercepted him.

His Lordship took the Pilot Major by the arm and led him toward the men nearer the prow. James couldn't help but notice the flicker of annoyance on Starling's father's face as the man noticed Hawk VonCoch—so called on count of his most austere nose but whose name was actually Charles—in the center of the circle, and he couldn't blame him for it either. Everyone knew Charles VonCoch was cousin to the King—because Charles VonCoch made certain it was known. He was a cold-hearted man and his son was none the better. If there was any relief at all in James on the day of his brother's funeral, it was thanks to the absence of Charles VonCoch II.

Starling looked, James thought, as if he would have been just as glad not to see Charles I. Truth be told, Lords Dorie and Pickwick looked just as lessly thrilled. Captain Jensen's face was unreadable but the only one who looked as if he truly found merit in VonCoch's presence was Lord Littleton.

An outburst of giggles drew James attention to that man's daughter and the company she kept. Around a bench were gathered the lasses—Lillian Littleton seeming the center of attention as always she was. The girl was as fair as her young mother but stiffer in stature. James guessed she got that from her father. Lord Littleton had always sat staunch and no different was the blueblood's daughter. For as rigid as she was, however, Lillian had a certain grace that most other girls did not. She was also a great deal… fussier. That particular trait was most manifest in her dress—in the way that she frowned at and fidgeted with it even as she chattered with the rest of the girls around her.

Beside Lillian sat her best girl. Meredith Munsen was more a fussbutton but, unlike Lillian, seemed not to have a choice in the matter. In fact, James thought as he watched her fiddle with her hair, it seemed she had no control over any bit of her appearance. Try as she may, Miss Munsen could not tame the erstwile frizz any more than she was capable of stuffing her too big bosom into her too tight dress. The ribbon decorating her decollatage was stretched so thin that James couldn't help but wonder when the threads would snap. Still, he thought she wore a pleasant face when it was she was not in company with Lillian. It was a bit of a pity, he thought, that Miss Munsen's pretty smile was so oft replaced by one that wavered with worry.

"Meredith, really," scoffed Lillian, batting the frizz away from her own face, "that mane of yours!"

Miss Munsen mumbled a response that James couldn't hear but he did see that pink tinged her freckled cheeks. He watched her duck her head and puzzled over why it was she looked with such gratitude toward her shoulder. It took him a moment to realize that a fat-fingered hand laid upon it and he followed its arm up to its body's face. Behind both girls stood Dolores Dorie, pudgy as ever she was. There was something sweet about her fat face. Same way was it with her twin. Danielle, who sat before Lillian on a neighboring bench, was just as pleasant and plump as her sister. Of all the gathered girls they bore the friendliest faces.

The least likely to be so amicable was the girl to Lillian's left, Alice Witter. The Witter family's only daughter was a few years older than James but much smaller. With her pale hair done up in curls, pretty face set in a soft pout, and dainty gloved hands set prim upon her lap she looked much like a fancy porcelain doll. As shrewd as her mother, Alice did not so much as flinch as her grey eyes shifted to glance in James' direction.

Flushing pink, he averted his gaze. To a laughing Lillian he looked again but soon followed her stare to the source of her apparent amusement. It was, he found, the only gel not in their company.

Though her back was to James, there was no mistaking that wild mane of waves. They were much the colour of sticky caramels from the sweetshop. It was Susan Sutton, alone as always, who stood balanced upon the rail of the ship as if her heeled shoes were not at all a hindrance.

Layers of lace, however, lay rumpled behind her. Most of the proper portion of her dress—grey ruffles of silk and a long-forgotten bodice—was a heap on the deck. A small grey bonnet had been tossed atop it.

Two gloves flung to the deck drew James' gaze up to the girl who'd shed them. With hands on her hips over the dark of her wide skirt, Susan cut as bold a figure as ever she had. A black bell she was against the grey.

"_Susan Jessamine Sutton_!"

James flinched but the gel had not.

"**_Off of there, girl!_**"

Admiral Sutton's bark of command was unpleasant at best and worse yet in James' ear. Before he could find voice to complain, he was grasped breathless by two strong hands. Lifted in the air and then set back on his feet, James was startled and could only stare after the surly man in whose way he'd stood.

A titter of giggles turned him aside and he frowned at the girls who reveled in Susan's discomfort.

"Not very nice are they?"

James shook his head and turned to the friend he'd been looking for. To his satisfaction, he found two—not only stood Percy beside him, but Nolan as well. Youngest of the Witters, Nolan was also the most friendly—even his wiry form and the unruly curls of brown hair were wholly unlike the polished appearance of his family. Percy, though, was all Pickwick. From the roots of his auburn hair to the toe of his buckled shoes, he was all the strength and dignity of his family name. As if to prove that point, he stood straighter and squared his shoulders to give the girls a glare of disapproval.

As if on cue, Miss Munsen flushed brightly and nudged her best girl friend in the ribs. Lillian Littleton's laugh was cut short. In the middle of complaint her violet eyes hooked on Percy. To the boys' delight she was sour-faced as a fish—and as was usual, Percy used that fact to his advantage, making googly eyes at her and gaping like a big-mouthed bass. The girls' collective gasp, James thought, was music to the ears.

Unfortunately, it had also caught the attention of Lance Littleton. Lillian's stronger, squarer-shouldered brother stormed toward them, full speed ahead. It was fortunate that the conversation behind them ended on a sweet note that had Jonathan Starling giving a great whoop and swooping an arm around Lance's rage-shaken shoulders.

"_Ready your instruments men_," Starling crowed to the startled crowd. "There's to be a party—festive folly celebratory of the life our fallen friend lived!"

James, for his part, chose then to disappear belowdecks. Percy and Nolan took more than a moment to notice and when they did he was gone from sight. Certain of why that was, they glared unforgivingly up at Jonathan Starling.

Unaffected, the gent patted the both of them fondly upon their heads. "Don't worry," he told Percy, "this time won't be like the last time." With that, and a bit of a grin, Starling bounded forward, dragging a reluctant Lance Littleton into the crowd abuzz with the prospect of a party.

A puzzled Nolan turned to Percy. "What happened last time?"

"Last time," Percy said with a roll of his eyes, "James and I were made to serve refreshments to Starling and his chums."

"So?"

Percy glanced about to make certain that no one else was listening. When he was sure of it, he turned woeful green eyes in Nolan's direction. "As wenches."

It was Nolan, then, who gaped like a fish.

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

James was skulking about the ship when sounds of the impromptu party thumped above his head. There were the sounds of heels striking the deck and he frowned to think that people were actually dancing up there while he wandered through the gloom of the _Godspeed_ alone. The first deck under, armed with the majority of the ship's guns, had been all but deserted. Two gunsmen, laughing over a shared joke, did not look up as James stalled on the stairs. He supposed, with a shrug, that they would not see him descend either and so he went on his way—past the second deck under to the third.

From what James had read in Brian's letters, most daily life aboard a vessel such as the _Godspeed_ took precedence on the third deck under. Comrades cooked their catch in the galley or took a meal together at one of the long tables in the mess hall. James slipped between those tables, fingers of each hand sliding over the rough wood, toward a set of wooden doors.

It took all James' strength to muster even the slightest creak. He pushed through the crack and found himself in a great empty room. The only source of light filtered in through dirty portholes. It was grey and cast shadows that reminded James too much of an attic he'd long avoided. For a moment he wondered if perhaps avoidance would be the better pursuit in his situation but the soft thud of the doors behind him bade him move on.

Gulping hard, he took hesitant steps forward into the eerie silence.

All wooden beams and bunks it was. Trunks bearing names—Goulding, Gunther, Haverford, Hawkes—sat at the foot of each bunk. Topping every one was a blanket folded into a square. There were discarded boots and flasks, several rough-hewn fishing poles, and upon one untidy desk lay a heap of rusty instruments that James hoped did not belong to the ship's surgeon.

James passed the tools with a wary glance and found himself at a rickety stairwell. A musty smell rose to tickle his nose. An altogether unpleasant feeling filled his head and the next thing he knew, he was doubled over and sneezing up a storm. Echoing in the abandoned space, a thousand squeaks and wheezes clamored around James. He winced and clapped his hands over his ears, but not before he heard the ominous creak of opening doors. Eyes wide, he stared at the stairway before him.

Splinters it might well have been for all he could see of it in the darkness but he stepped hurriedly forward. Down he took the stairs, ignoring the quake and shake of wooden treads that were good as rotted out. Quickly he made past the underdeck with all the guests' sleeping compartments. Near to the underbelly of the _Godspeed_ he was when he heard footfalls above. His hand clutching the shuddering rail, James paused. There he stood, still as a doe in the crossfire, straining to hear any noise that wasn't the fast patter of pulse in his ears until there was a faint scrape and a shower of dust fell before his eyes.

Panicking, he pounded down around what looked to be the last curve. He saw the faint outline of a doorway and then his vision blurred as his foot crunched through wood. Pitching forward, James lost his grip on the rail. He flung his elbows out to catch himself but regret the course of action immediately. White-hot pain shot up his arms. He cried out, tears stinging his eyes. His knees smacked wood and smarted and then he thudded to a stop. Something was clambering down the stairs after him and, lying in a heap under the doorway he'd spied, James decided that whatever injury he'd suffered was of lesser importance than getting away from what was after him.

Dragging himself to his feet, he stumbled forward in something of a run. But the underbelly of the _Godspeed_ was damp, and damp wood was slippery and James did not realize this until he was skidding across the floor in darker shadow than he'd wished to encounter. There was no grey, only darkness—darkness that had hidden from him the hard mast of the ship he skidded into.

A scrape of claws on wood turned him around. Glowing green eyes blinked. He gasped. With a shriek the thing leapt at him. It'd sunk in its claws before he'd time to run. Over the loud thump of his heart he heard another shriek. It did not occur to him that it was his own and so he gave another as he tumbled to the ground with his assailant. Sharp talons swiped his palm. The sting was terrible but it was not so bad as the terror of the thing that was scrambling about him, hissing and spitting like mad. They rolled. To James' horror, he heard a dash over floor that meant the thing attacking him was not what had been pursuing him. In a fit, he poked the thing scratching at him in one of its gleaming eyes. It gave a yowl and sunk its claws into his shoulder.

"James!"

Becalmed by the shriek, the thing slunk around his head, a long tail draping over his face. It tickled his nose. Feeling a bit more brave for having not been claimed by death, James let his eyes roll back to identify his attacker.

The ship's cat stared at him.

James closed his eyes. Silently he berated himself as the animal sniffed at his hairline. Its nose was wet against his forehead when he remembered that he'd been running from something—something that had turned out to be someone.

"James, are you alright?"

Before he could take a proper look at the person, the bright light of a lantern blinded him. He heard the rustle of silk and the soft thunk of knees before his eyes fixed themselves to find the face of Susan Sutton. Glowing gold it was, her cheerful face, but puckered with worry as well. Two brown eyes assessed the damages done to his person and then shined into his. A smile lifted her lips and a giggle escaped them and James felt his face heat up considerably.

"I'm just fine," he told her. "Fine's what I am." With that he stood, inwardly cursing his shaky legs, and frowned down at her. He folded his arms and when she stood, he glared fierce as was possible given the situation. "Do you make it habit following boys about?"

Susan Sutton blinked. Her eyes glistened at him, bright with tears in the darkness. "No," she said, her lip quivering just a bit, "not all boys."

James flushed worse, but his anger had gone. "I—well—" it returned with his sputtering, however, and he stalked away from her and into the darkness. To his further irritation, the cat followed along, rubbing against his ankles. "Away, mongrel," he snapped, shaking it off. He felt the smallest twinge of regret when it gave a sad little meow and scampered off ruffling its mangy fur. "Bloody cat…"

"Are you going to be contrary forever, then?" Susan trailed after him, her black silk sweeping over the floor. "It only wanted to be friends."

"Friends with a cat," James spat, whipping around to glare at her. "Do you mock me?" He cursed her eyes for going tearful again, and scowled at her. "Leave me to myself and enjoy the party! Everyone else is!"

"Brian would have liked it."

"What do you know about him?" It had been quite enough that she had so far belittled him, but that she felt it necessary to bring up his dearly departed brother—and as though she were his familiar! He stared her in the eyes, now caring not that they watered, and struggled with his fisted hands that wanted nothing more than to grab her by the shoulders. "Well?"

"Only that he was funny—and nice—"

"Then you don't talk about him! And don't tell me he would have liked it!" Tears stung his eyes. "Who would like having their friends and family dance all over their grave?!"

Susan took a step back, her mouth turning down in a frown.

"No one, that's who."

James didn't wait for a response. He did not wish to hear any, and so he pushed past her and made for the doorway he'd fallen under. In his haste he did not remember that the floor was wet and his feet slipped out from under him. Landing hard on his bum, he was mortified to hear soft peals of laughter behind him and worser embarrassed to feel two small hands lifting him under the arms. He watched, face flaming, as Susan stepped past him and lifted the lantern to light the way.

"Come on," she urged when he didn't move to follow. "It's too dark without a light."

When they'd made it successfully to the desk with the tools upon it, she stopped and turned around to face him. There was determination writ upon her face. She opened her mouth to speak but James, wary of hearing what she might have to say now, turned to the instruments and pretended to be fascinated by the grisly things. Unfortunately, this seemed not to distract Susan Sutton from what it was she'd meant to say.

"That's not what they're doing up there, you know," she said. "They're celebrating the life your brother lived. Mister Starling's idea was a good one, James. I wish we could have danced after my mother's service…"

James paused in his handling of a particularly sharp apparatus and glanced sideways at her. He was glad to note she was not looking at him, but at the tool in his grasp. It made responding easier, somehow. "Your mother…?"

Susan nodded and then her gaze fell to the floor. "She had the loveliest smile… Grandmere says I smile just as pretty, but I don't think that I do." She looked at him then and her lips curled up in a little half smile that was not as lovely as the one she usually flashed. "Father agrees with me."

"The Admiral? I thought—"

"He's remarried," she said. "Shame Nataline's not made him any nicer." She looked at the rusty tongs in his hand and sighed. "Are you planning on being a ship's surgeon?"

James made a face, feeling quite ill that these were really the surgeon's tools. "No, I am not," he said, realizing he'd no idea what he planned on being when it was he was of age to decide. Frowning, he followed her out through the crack between the heavy doors and into the mess hall. "Where are we going?"

Susan did not answer until they were just under the gun deck. She paused on the landing and looked over her shoulder at him. "To find your friends, of course."

Such was easier said than done it seemed, for when the both of them stepped onto the main deck they found themselves in the thick a spirited jig. Navymen danced around them to the tune that the ship's uniformed musicians played off the quarterdeck. James and Susan were whirled this way and that by the whooping men. Susan gave a startled squeak as one redcoat grabbed her little hands and turned her in a circle. The wide skirt of her dress flared, and she was gone in a whir of black silk and caramel curls. James gawked, but made up his mind to escape the mayhem. Between two men, stomping and clapping to the tune, he darted forward—right into the rather rotund belly of another. Eyes crossed, he fell backwards but two pudgy hands grabbed him by the shoulders and righted him.

"Ey laddy," cried the round man, "tis a hearty party, aye?"

Short of breath, James nodded. A lock of dark hair fell over his eye and he reached to smooth it back when another strong set of hands grabbed him up by the underarms. A great arc in the air later and he found himself on a set of broad shoulders. Confused, he looked down at the head of the man he sat on and found a familiar head of wavy blond hair.

"Lieutenant Hollings?"

"Aye Jamesy," said his brother's best mate. "You alright up there?"

Truth be told, James was not so fond of heights double his own but he was much grateful for the rescue from the chaotic jig he'd been caught up in. He compromised, gulping back his fear and nodding emphatically as they made their way out of the thick of things. "Just fine!"

"Good to hear," said Hollings. He turned his head, showing James a twinkling blue eye. "Been looking for you all the night long and here you was taking a dance!"

James frowned and glanced behind at the mess of folk, now both Navymen and guests, to see if he could spot Susan. He didn't and frowned all the more, wondering where she'd gotten off to. A quick patter of feet turned his attention to Hollings' side and there she was, skipping along.

"Twirling with the boys, were you?"

Susan laughed, breathless, and shook her head. Curls bounced on her shoulders and her eyes caught the twinkle of stars. "Sod off, Hollings!"

The strapping Lieutenant gave pause. He looked down at the girl with a faltering frown. "Now is that any way for a wee lass to talk to a Lieutenant officer of his Majesty's Royal Navy?" With a chuckle, he reached down and mussed her hair. "You do me proud, Suze, but don't let no one else, particularly that Da of your'n, catch hear of that tongue or you'll have the devil to pay!"

"Of course not," she scoffed. "It'd be surprising if Father heard one unsavory word as it is we don't talk much for all the hollering he does."

James watched her skip ahead, aware of Hollings' sad sigh drooping him lower on those shoulders. He was near to asking if he could walk the rest of the way when it was the man went down on bended knee to allow him just that. James stepped off and turned around to look up at the man who, when standing tall, was taller than any he'd ever known.

"Thanks," he said.

"Twasn't a problem," said Hollings with the traces of a smile. He patted James' head fondly and seemed to study him. "You're still Brian's brother, afterall."

"James!"

"Finally!"

Pairs of feet pounded over deck toward him and James turned in time to see Nolan hurtling too fast at him and Percy on his heels. Gulping, he ducked to avoid a confrontation with Nolan's flailing arm. Percy's knee clocked him in the jaw and he scowled, rubbing at the spot as he straightened.

"Sorry about that," Percy offered.

"Yeah," said a sheepish Nolan as he untangled his limbs from their sprawl upon the deck, "sorry."

James shrugged. "Wouldn't be the worst I've suffered all day." He made a move to glare at Susan but she was nowhere to be seen. He turned to Hollings again but found that the Lieutenant had sidled off into the crowd towards Captain Jensen, Percy's older brother Patrick and… James lifted a brow. "Who is that?"

The man in question was swaying slightly, the mug in his hand spilling over just a bit but enough to spatter on the toes of the Captain's fine shoes. Jensen did not look particularly thrilled, nor unhappy with his predicament, but he did look slightly less than impressed by the state of his own lace cravat stretched around the man's head as if it were a scarf. Patrick Pickwick's face was apologetic, and no less so when their strange companion started conversing with his hands and managed to updump the rest of his cup on Jensen's stockings.

"Who else," said Percy, "but Starling?"

James gawked. "Is he—"

"Sloshed," confirmed Nolan. "He's been at the rum all night. That ain't even his mug in hand—it's the Captain's!"

At that moment, as the cup flashed past with quite an elaborate swoop, Jensen chose to take back his mug. He did so without incident, for Starling did not even seem to notice the thing had been lifted from his hands. On the contrary, his fingers flexed and fluttered in the air all the more.

"Lookit my brother," whispered Percy, nodding at Patrick's flushed face. "Mortified, to the red roots of his hair."

"But his hair's always been red," said Nolan, sounding mystified.

Percy rolled his eyes and motioned they follow. James sighed inwardly but went on because he was genuinely curious as to what Starling was saying. Much as he resented him for his earlier suggestion that ended up the proceedings as a party, he couldn't help but pander to curiosity when the gent displayed his stranger side.

"…now me, I've forever thought Henley was mistaken in his battle with the French. Turns out Frenchies aren't keen on Spaniards either, see? Were Henley to ally his forces with the Frogs, he might better accomplish his goals of constipation." Starling frowned and swayed a bit with this last word. "Constabilization? Con…" He trailed off looking quite puzzled for a moment, but then his face lit up and he snapped his fingers. "Colonization! What say you, Captain?"

"Me, Mister Starling?" Jensen did not smile, but on James' closer inspection the man's eyes were doing it for him. "I say I'm surprised that with so keen a strategical mind you stay with the study of cartography. Why, Jonathan, have you not joined His Majesty's Royal Navy?"

"Because," Patrick said, "no Royal Navy would have him."

James snorted his agreement and was somehow vindicated by the hurt look that Starling turned first upon a chuckling Hollings and then down at him. He smiled as much as he could up at the man. The cravat about Starling's head was much a help to this cause—it looked even more ridiculous up close than it had previously.

"What about you, Mister Norrington?"

Not expecting to be addressed by Captain Jensen, James whirled to gape at him. He gulped, hard, and somehow found his voice—though he'd some difficulty at first. "W—what of me, sir?"

"Will you pledge service one day?"

"To the Navy, sir?"

Jensen nodded.

"I—"

James stopped himself. He'd been about to make a promise that he was not certain he would be able keep. To be the third Norrington committed to the Navy would be one thing. To chancely be the third Norrington whose obligation to the Navy met him with awful ends was another. James frowned at the thought.

"I don't know, sir."

It was at that precise moment that a soft breeze caressed the cheeks of all aboard the _Godspeed_. The ship was swept with gasps and murmurs of excitement for the telltale touch of the wind having come back to her. Indeed, the sails were soon billowing and those officers who'd not partaken of drink were to their posts to see that the ship took her passengers home.


	3. Home and Away

**T**hree long days later and the _HMS Godspeed_ had taken them home. The ship sailed swiftly up the ghostly Thames. In all his life in London, James hadn't been witness to such fog. He stood at the rail looking out over the side of the _Godspeed_ at all of the wet white that seemed to pour up off the water. It swirled in the air around them. Phantom wisps licked his cheeks and he shivered.

Despite the weather, His Majesty's Ship's return appearance had seemingly attracted all London's townsfolk, for James saw scores of shadows, some waving white kerchiefs, through the fog that rolled up over the riverbanks. It was a good sort of welcoming home, but he could not bring himself to enjoy it. As the _Godspeed_ finally pulled into the harbor, he frowned down at the Seal of Honour winking up at him despite the absence of sunlight.

"You take care of that, now."

James jumped at the unexpected sound of Captain Jensen's voice so closeby. Had he been paying attention he may have heard the man's slow, steady approach. Had he not been so distracted, he may have greeted the man as he knew he should and not with the unsatisfactory gasp he heard himself take.

Jensen did not seem to notice. Eyes the colour of ice gazed out o'er the rail at the ghostly dockyards. "It truly is the mark of your brother's Honour that you wear." A ghost of a smile flickered in the man's eyes and then his gaze switched sideways to pierce James. "You should honour it well."

"I—I will sir."

Whether or not Jensen was convinced, he gave a quick nod and turned back out to watch the docksmen scramble to ready a berth for the Godspeed. "It is unusual for me to remark upon one of my fallen men, young James, but I feel it is a diservice to your brother if I do not tell you that he was very and truly one of my best. I am sorry to have failed him."

"**_Jensen_**!"

It was the Admiral's bark and both James and the captain flinched and turned to watch the towering, glowering man stride through the crowded deck to meet them. His sharp eyes picked between them and then stuck on Jensen. Though James was glad he was not on the receiving end of such a glare, he gulped hard.

"You know better than that, Jensen," said Admiral Sutton. "When a man falls, it is only he that fails himself—and his superiors."

The Captain's pale eyes went cold as they met the Admiral's dark stare. Jensen's chin jerked aside but his gaze did not falter. His jaw twitched as if he meant to speak, but he did not.

"I shan't hear such blasphemy from your mouth again, Captain." The Admiral's mouth pulled down in a line, his mustache with it. "Perhaps it would be prudent," he said, "to see to your ship and your men." A pointing finger indicated a group of redcoats making a game of crossing muskets whilst another lazed about watching the midshipmen secure lines. "It seems when they are left to their _own devices_, they have nothing better to do than _disgrace_ you. _James_." His glare switched. "Come along."

If James thought he had a choice in the matter, he might have not followed the man's order. As it was, however, James did not have much a choice. Admiral Sutton was his way home and so, with a rueful glance at the retreating figure of Captain Jensen, James followed.

"**_Susan_**!" The Admiral had bellowed his daughter's name at the top of his lungs. Several sailors leapt to attention, and Patrick Pickwick was so startled that he nearly upended a frowning Missus Witter's traveling trunk. Percy and Jonathan Starling looked much amused by all of the fuss, but both paled considerably when they came under Sutton's imperious glare. James imagined that it was fortunate for the both of them that the man's daughter chose that moment to bound into view—atop Hollings' shoulders. "There you are. And in _fine form_, I see. Tell me, what have I told you of nonsense?"

Susan, who stepped easily off of an apologetic Hollings, looked up at her father with the sweetest of smiles but her dark eyes were spitting fire at the man. "You have told me," she said, "that it will not be tolerated."

"And so you shall keep that in mind this week when you are polishing the chamberpots," Sutton told her. He motioned to his uniformed attendant and the straight-faced man stepped forward to lift both traveling trunks from the deck. With a curt nod at the Pilot Major Starling, whose lips had drawn together in a tight smile, he grabbed Susan's hand and jerked her into a trot beside him. "_Come along_."

James risked a wary glance at a sorry Percy before he hoisted his pack o'er his shoulder and followed the Suttons down over the gangplank. There was some ceremony involved in the Admiral's disembarking of the ship but James paid it no mind. In truth he was wondering if Sutton would truly force such a foul punishment on his only daughter, and he was wishing he'd had the chance to utter a proper goodbye to Captain Jensen when he was yanked without ceremony into the carriage by a cruel hand.

Startled, James suddenly found himself shoved beside the Admiral and staring across the carriage into the haughty face of Charles VonCoch II. Any hope he may have had for an easy ride home left him. He watched, dismayed, as Hawk VonCoch stepped up into the cab and sat beside his sneering son with an equivocal look upon his face.

"Quite the lax command on that _Godspeed_, Sutton."

"Captain Jensen is not usually so…"

"Incompetent?"

Admiral Sutton's mustache twitched. "I assure you, Charles, that Captain Jensen is one of the King's finest. What's suffering him to be so out of step is his morale, or lack thereof." His dark eyes gleamed as he drew a thin, folded parchment from his coat and held it out to Hawk VonCoch. "Norrington's death put him at a bad place, I presume."

"Well." VonCoch snatched the offering and raised a bushy brow. "As you and I both know, and surely Jensen should, that Norrington lout was not exactly the pride of the Royal Navy. More a thorn in the side, by my ear."

Anger flared hot in James chest. Wanting nothing more than to leap across the carriage and lay punches to Hawk VonCoch's beak but unable to do so, he gripped his knees. A golden glint drew his gaze down to the Seal of Honour so heavy on his chest.

"And yet," sneered Charles the younger, "they've given him such tribute."

James needn't look to know the boy was staring at the medal on his chest. He bit his lip and turned to gaze out the window. Not for the first time, he wished to be somewhere other than where he was. Though Susan shot forward to tell Charles all she knew about how good a seaman his brother was, James could not bring himself to listen. For a time he stared steadfastly out the window, but as they bumped along the cobblestone he began to feel slightly ill and so closed his eyes tight against the familiar, shaking scenery…

_"Brian Douglas, you wretch, get in here!"_

_The tall, uniformed Navyman let loose a laugh and ducked his head back in the carriage door. A wolfish grin lit his face as he settled into his seat across from his horrified mother. James looked between them, unable to supress the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth._

_"Is it not enough going off to sea on those deathtrap ships? Must you also worry me for your safety in this carriage?"_

_Their mother was chastising playfully, but there was a plaintive tone of genuine concern in her voice that bade James bite his lip and turned Brian Norrington's grin sheepish. Though there was repentance upon his face, his bright blue eyes sparkled as merrily as ever. _

_"Sorry, Mother," he said. "But I shall point out that this I've learned from Father."_

_Their Father, sitting beside James and similarly uniformed, snapped to attention at this and his blue eyes, like the boys', narrowed upon his eldest son. It was a glare that had always meant the worst sort of terrible for the either of them. There was a moment in which James thought surely Brian was in for it, but then their father's narrow eyes crinkled at the corners and a light laugh spilled through his broad smile. _

_"That he did," the man agreed. "My apologies, Mum."_

_"Whatever did I do to deserve a family of mischief-making men?"_

_James laughed with his brother and father, each of the three of them earning a shake of her coppery curls. It seemed in the next instant they were bumping up the long, winding drive that led home. Bright sunlight filtered down through the boughs of needled trees to dapple the cobblestone, and the green lawn, in gold. James watched, transfixed, as they rounded the bend and the great Norrington manor rose into view. Though he'd never known another home, the sight of it upon returns from town always impressed him. Whether it was the great grey manor itself, or that it was its familial history—the sweat and tears of his great-great grandfather having gone into the building of it—he did not know. Either way, there was no feeling comparable to that which filled his chest when home greeted him so dearly._

_It was a mark of his mother's touch that a trellis rose climbed a corner of the house's tower. Her flowerboxes dressed every first story window. Pink geraniums and yellow tulips brightened the grey house to make it a home, as well did the white smoke curling out of the chimney that never failed to remind James, Brian, and their father of the fireplace they had built alongside their grandfather. _

_For some reason feeling quite overwhelmed, James climbed out of the carriage and as he waited for his chattering family to follow suit gazed about the grounds. There were lovely gardens that were the pride of his mother, but the gardeners had paid particular attention to the bed around the base of the great white Oak. James smiled at that tree and followed its trunk up to the wooden structure his grandfather had once built for he and Brian's father. They had since taken the fort over, and their father, who was not so much a woodworker, had struggled to string up a wooden swing under it. The swing itself was swaying in the breeze as James' instinct led him up the stone risers to the flung-open door and the staff waiting to dote upon he and his—_

"**_Norrington_**!"

James blinked.

Happiness faded before his eyes as two shoes planted firmly on the riser level with his gaze came sharp into focus. Gulping back a gasp of fear, James followed both impressively long legs up to find the severe face of Admiral Sutton scowling down at him. Even the man's mustache was twisted with irritation as he bent to glare into James' face.

"Tell me, Norrington," he said harshly, "have I invited you into my house this day?"

James turned three shades of scarlet. He swallowed hard against the lump rising in his throat. A fast patter of fleeing feet meant Susan had taken flight, and James heard the distinct chuckle and cackle that meant Charles and Charles were standing watch over what might be the most mortifying moment of his young life. To his abject horror, he found that his mouth had gone so dry it seemed pasted shut; he could not speak.

"_I **said**_," growled Admiral Sutton, his mustache as angry as he, "_have I invited you into my house this day_?"

"N—no," James managed to stammer. Only as the Admiral's eyes narrowed further did he realize he'd forgotten to proper address the man. "No _sir_."

"No." Sutton nodded, seemingly satisfied and stood to his full height. "I did not think so _generous_ a deed would slip my mind so easily," he said, much to the merriment of the VonCochs behind him. His mustache lifted as he smiled mirthlessly down upon James. "Good day."

With that, the Admiral turned on his heel and marched up the steps to the waiting VonCochs. Charles the younger wore a sneer and his father looked down over the curve of his nose at James as if he, James, was but an insect to prey upon until the both of them were ushered into the manor before its master. Admiral Sutton paused in the doorway and passed a dark glance o'er his shoulder that sent James backing down the steps.

"Good day sir," he squeaked and fled as the door jerked shut. Around the manor he ran the familiar path through the tall trees, ankles trembling all the way. It was when he felt his chest tighten painfully that the ramshackle cottage came into view. Wheezing, he stumbled up the weedy path to the crooked planks of the porch and collapsed there. From inside the house rushed a quick tap of heels. A creak of the door later and James heard a horrified gasp.

"_James_! **_Allan, come quickly_**!"

There was a heavier set of fast paces to the porch and the sound of a clucking tongue. James, whose vision swam, saw a blur of auburn just before a set of strong arms swooped him up against a broad chest. They were moving through the house then, heavy steps followed quickly by tapping heels, and James choked a bit on the words he wanted to say. As he was set upon the sitting chair he realized that he hadn't the breath to speak.

"Don't you try talking!"

Such admonishment was met with the soft, cool hand of sympathy upon his brow. There was another cluck of a tongue and a soft sigh. James opened his eyes and blinked, relieved to see that the world had returned to its previous sharpness. He smiled weakly at the kind-faced people so worriedly set upon him.

"Ye alright there James?" Allan's deep blue eyes were wide. If he did not appear so genuinely concerned, the burly man with the auburn locks and bushy beard might have been a funny sight on bended knee. "Leastways yer breathin."

"Run, didn't you?" Eileen, perched on the arm of the chair, took James' chin in her palm and lifted it. Big hazel eyes met his. "You know you mustn't, James!"

"I know," he wheezed.

"_Don't you talk_!"

"_Leen_—"

"—_Allan Douglas, don't you_—"

"—_he's naet gon' expire_—"

"—_You'll_ expire _if you keep it up_!"

All of the bickering allowed James proper time to catch his breath. He watched, somewhat amused, as Eileen huffed out of the room and presumably toward the kitchen. Allan, sighing with resolve, rose slowly to his feet and after a shake of his head followed in his wife's stead. James listened. A moment later there came to his ears the sound of more bickering and then a small scuffle and then a dull thud that was followed sharply by Allan's voice.

"That was _my head_!"

"Aye it was," came the scathing reply. "Where better than to knock some sense into you?"

James bit back a grin as Allan reappeared. Sore-faced, the man clomped through the room. One hand was rubbing at the back of his head as the other offered James a cup. Tendrils of steam rose from it and James lifted the cup to breathe in the sharp sting of mint as Eileen bustled into the room. It was a remedy she had concocted after several times James had had trouble catching his breath, a remedy she said had once been his mother's mother's. James was not so certain that that was true, but it had not mattered much as that the remedy helped him breathe.

"That's right, you breathe it in James," said Eileen, sitting herself on the arm of the chair again. She laid her hand lightly upon his brow and brushed a loose lock of dark hair back over his head. "Wanted to come home fast as you could, aye?" Her gaze fell upon the glint of metal upon his coat. Hazel eyes grew bright and she blinked. "Can't blame you, lad, but you know you mustn't run."

"I know."

"Was it a respectable burial they gave your brother?"

James supposed it was. He nodded, but could not bring himself to speak of it. For a number of moments they sat there in silence, he whiffing the mint fumes from the cup and Eileen watching intently. When the pain in his chest subsided, James handed her the cup and squirmed under her gaze.

"Have you any work for me?"

"Aye." Though he'd asked Eileen, it was Allan who'd answered. James' cousin stepped forward, ignoring the piercing gaze of his wife, and smiled down at James. "There's something."

Scarce moments later found James standing, tray of tea in hand, at the bottom of the rickety stairs to the attic. He trembled. The chipped china's clinking forced him to steady himself. Gulping, James put a foot forward to make his way carefully up the steps. That at the top creaked under his weight and a flash of silver zinged past his head. He gasped, nearly dropping the tray. Steadying it, he turned and gaped at the shuddering dagger that had just impaled the wooden beam behind him.

"Oh…"

The whisper shivered through James like as would a chill, but this time the tea tray did not tremble. He turned, slowly, in a circle and squinted into the shadowy recesses of the attic until a waif of a silhouette appeared. As he stepped forward, the shape of his mother, seated prim and proper upon the threadbare settee, took.

"It's only you." In the darkness even eyes dull as hers gleamed, though there was no real recognition in them. She stared blankly up at him, but her lip quirked just a bit. "Thought you were a pirate."

"No, mother," James murmured. He sat the tray upon the table before her. "Were I a pirate, I would lash my own skin."

That was not the only work Allan had in mind for James in the week that fast passed, but it was certainly the most difficult task he'd had to contend with on those seven days. Chopping wood upon the morn was rather an easy chore—he'd become accustomed to it in fact. Drawing water and peeling potatoes were two of his favorite duties, and he was happy to tackle both daily. Even was he chipper taking the long walk into the butcher, despite his lack of breath upon return. Those errands passed his days quickly and without struggle, but all of the tea times with his mother in the attic she rarely left dragged weary upon his person.

It was on a breakfast, an odd one as his mother had at the crack of dawn descended the steps from the attic and joined the rest of them at the table, after that week that a knock at the door took Allan from the table. James looked up from his half-eaten bowl of porridge in time to see the man peck a kiss to Eileen's cheek in passing. As always he felt a prickle of irritation that they had shared so sweet a sentiment in front of his lovelorn mother. A glance in her direction found her unworried, however. Of the exchange she seemed blissfully unaware and all the more delighted for the shape that the clumpy contents of her bowl had taken. She'd made a sailless ship. With as soft a sigh as possible, he turned away from her fondness for newest foodstuff sculpture. A pleasant aroma of sour sweet and spice drew his attention to the mug being pressed into his hand. Up to Eileen he looked. Above her small smile he found her kind hazel eyes.

"Come to find on the morn a bushel o' apples on the stoop," she said. "Miss Mooney left 'em. Could be she knows much as I how a press of cider does to warm a lad."

James found his fingers wrapped around the warm mug. To it he looked. A pale wisp of steam rose up to tickle his nose with the promise of mulled cider. "Thank you," he murmured. That, he found, he meant more than he had when he made to say it. Not wishing to dwell on the matter, he took a hurried sip of the stuff and was rewarded by the tart, warm taste of the Mooney's orchard's bounty bursting in his mouth.

"Welcome to it," Eileen said.

James tensed at the weight her small hand laid upon his shoulder but when she lifted it and bustled away he wished suddenly that he had the temerity to call her back. Lacking the bravery necessary for such gall, he set down the mug and took up his spoon, reasoning silently that his porridge would go cold if he did not eat it with more haste. He therefore took a sizeable bite of it.

"Sails," said his mother decisively. She flicked her spoon at the ship in her bowl. "Yes, you're right," she told it. "You shall have your sails!"

"Now Lizzie," said Allan's gentle voice, "you know what we say about playing with our food."

James swallowed hard. The sting of his eyes, he told himself, had been due to the large lump of food that he'd forced down his smarting throat. But, he thought wildly, if he did not eat his porridge quickly, it would lose its warmth and its taste. That would not do and so he shoveled another spoonful in.

"Yes," she muttered, going back to her usual demure tone, "I know, _I know, I know_. I know, yes I know."

The second swallow hurt worse. James winced. The third stuck and, gagging, he looked up and reached for his mug. Taking a mouthful of the cider, he saw, over the rim of the mug, that there were three others standing behind Allan in the doorway. Percy, in front of Patrick and Jonathan, looked near as pale as he himself felt. James' throat tightened and he was vaguely aware of the strangled sound it made as the cider that had been supposed to remedy the situation choked him.

"See?" Elizabeth Norrington glared daggers at Allan as she reached behind James to clap him firmly on the back. "James knows that the ship needs it sails!"

Her hard smack sent more cider splashing down his throat. James spluttered. As he hacked into his hands, he felt warmth rise into his face that had gone cold. When it was that he felt he could breathe, he took a sharp breath and closed his eyes against their stinging.

"Don't worry James," his mother said, patting his hand gently, "she shall have her sails." With that, she went to whispers. "_Sails… yes, I know, I know… sails and sails and sails and_…"

James wheezed.

Eileen, having missed the commotion, chose that moment to emerge from the pantry. At the sight of the boys behind her husband she brightened. "Why…" A brilliant smile lit her usually plain face. "Percy, Patrick… Jonathan! More lads to our table is it? Come, sit down," she suggested, patting the bench beside James. "I've plenty of cider to pour."

Jonathan and Patrick exchanged a look that James did not miss, but Percy had not noticed. To his friend's credit, Percy smiled just as brightly back at Eileen. "Thank you Missus Douglas. We'd fancy that."

As Allan ushered the boys in, Eileen set the mugs in their places. Two she put to James' left and one across from him—beside his mother. When Percy took that seat, James felt more than slightly relieved.

"So," said Eileen, ladling steaming cider from the kettle to Percy's mug, "what brings you, lads? Tis early on the morn to see even a one of you."

Both of the Pickwicks looked to each other to answer. Percy had already a mouthful of cider. Patrick's cheeks, too, were puffed out with the stuff.

"We're off on a hunt as it were," offered Jonathan. He tilted his head toward Percy but his gaze fell on Allan beside him. "Young Percival, here, had a mind to extend invitation to Jamesy."

Hearing this, Allan raised his brows at James.

But James did not look at him. He could not look at anyone just then. The last time that Percy had persuaded Patrick into a hunting expedition had been when Brian had been off duty and eager to teach James the mechanics of man's sport the way that their father had once taught him.

"It's a worthy trip, James," Percy blurted, sounding very much like he knew he would have to persuade him. "Old England's full of turkeys this time of year."

"Yes," mused Jonathan, "the politicians are in a sad state on this cusp of winter."

Percy ignored him, and Allan's snort of laughter, his green eyes set on James' blue. "Wouldn't you like to bring home a turkey?"

"I…" _A turkey_? He frowned. "I hadn't thought about that."

"Oooh," cooed Eileen, "it would be very nice to have on the table a plump pheasant."

"Turkey," Jonathan ammended.

James looked to Patrick Pickwick. His friend's older brother had been the only one who had not taken part in the strange discussion of fowl. To James' relief, he appeared just as disenchanted with it.

"Spot of sport would do any man well at weary times such as these," Patrick said.

"Right he is," Allan decided. He slapped the table with more gusto than should be allowed so early on the morn. "Ye," he said, pointing a finger at James, "are goin. So get on with your packs."

"But—"

"_Please_, James?"

In the end, it was the desperation in Percy's voice that convinced him not to argue with Allan's decree. With a worried glance at his mother—who'd not had one say in the entire matter—he'd scurried up the creaking stairs to gather his things. There weren't many to gather. It was not long before he was being crushed in hugs, covered with kisses—and sod it if he didn't hear Starling snickering all the while—and then confronted by his quiet mother. James realized, as his heart thumped so loudly in his ears, that he was afraid she would not even so much as acknowledge his departure. Vast relief swept him when she set down her spoon to look at him.

"Don't you go getting yourself eaten by a goose, now."

James did not answer—for he had none for such a demand—but hugged her nonetheless. It was an odd gesture in that she did not return it. Perhaps, he thought as he followed Percy out through the hall, the hunting trip would be a rather welcome departure from the task he had come to dread.

They were only just out the creaky door when James stopped in his tracks.

Waiting, tethered to trees and shivering quietly against the crisp grey morning, were two saddled horses. Both were black and, by the look of them, thoroughbreds straight from the Starlings' stables. Indeed, James noted the Starling emblem—a compass rose with a north 'starling'—toiled dark upon the fine saddles.

"We're riding?"

"Cross town," said Jonathan. He made quick work of untethering the beasts despite the escalating argument behind him as regards to which Pickwick would mount their horse first. Only one brow quirked in the brothers' direction as he tossed the reins to Patrick. "Carriage is waiting. _Which means_," he shouted, finally turning on his heel to glare at the Pickwicks, "_we haven't all day to dilly dally_!"

Both brothers pointed accusingly at the other. Upon realizing this, they blushed brightly and dropped their hands. Patrick grabbed hold of Percy and hoisted him, kicking and shouting, up onto the horse and followed quickly with the reins in hand.

Jonathan and James managed the feat without as much fuss, James accepting a hand up first and Jonathan swinging a leg over behind him. With a sharp glance at their company, Jonathan pushed his heels ever so slightly into the flanks of his horse. It set off at a trot through the weeds.

As they emerged from the trees, there was a squeal of glee and it was not long before a rosy-cheeked Susan Sutton skipped alongside the horses. It seemed, James thought, that she was _trying_ to pet the beasts' rumps. He heard Jonathan's tsk behind him but felt the cartographer give a tug of the reins nonetheless. The Pickwicks' horse ambled to a stop ahead of them and both brothers seemed to think that the reason for their stopping was cause enough for the both of them to squabble a bit more.

"Come around the side," Jonathan said. "Lest you'd like a swift kick to the—"

"_Oh, they are so lovely_!"

This happy exclamation was accompanied by a soft sigh. Susan pet the horse's flank and when the beast gave a delighted whinny she turned shining eyes up at the both of them. James exchanged glances with Jonathan then raised his brows at the girl fawning over the horse.

"Has this one a name?"

"_This one_," said Jonathan, pointing down at the horse he and James were astride, "is Altair. And _that one_," he said, flicking a finger at the horse the Pickwicks sat upon, "is Delano."

Susan smiled wistfully. "I do wish my father would allow me a chance at riding lessons."

"Did he really have you polish the chamberpots?"

James wished he'd bit his own tongue in half before he'd had the chance to ask such a question. He felt his face flare up. _It must_, he thought, _be red as Susan's cheeks_.

"Yes," she said with a defiant gleam in her eye. "Of course he did. Father thinks me wicked and so—"

As if on cue, there came to them a great shout followed by the loud crack of gunfire that made James jump and set Delano, ahead, into a fright. The horse reared on its hind legs and took off, both Pickwicks shouting an asundrious variety of obscenities. Altair snorted but did not make a move to follow. Jonathan sounded as lessly intimidated as his horse, but James paled upon seeing Admiral Sutton striding in their direction.

"**_Susan Sutton_**, you _bedeviled_ child—"

"Is he _always_ so genial upon the morn?"

"You've no idea," Susan answered Jonathan. She smiled at he and James. "Thanks much for stopping!"

As her father neared, Susan's eyes widened. The Admiral reached for her but grasped thin air, for she was too quick. Squealing, she dashed around the horse. Jonathan snickered as her father gave chase. Admiral Sutton was nearing the beast's backside when Starling's lip curled in a way that meant he was up to no good. Dread excitement coursed through James as he saw two nimble fingers reach for the horse's hide.

Starling pinched.

Altair kicked and the Admiral's howl of pain sent the horse after a disappearing Delano. Jonathan, laughing outright, struck his ankles in the horse's flanks as James' wide eyes watched the Admiral hop about on one foot. A whip of the reins startled James forward and he grabbed onto the saddle's grip before him.

"_Ya_!"

"Starling," ventured James with a glance back at the yowling man, "do you think he will have broken something?"

Jonathan flashed his pearly whites. "Do you much care?"

"Only…" James felt his ears turn pinker than the cold made them and turned forward again. "I don't wish his anger to come upon Miss Susan."

"Lad," said Jonathan, whipping the reins again, "I wouldn't worry about that..." As they neared Delano he tugged the reins a bit and chuckled. "Don't think the Admiral's going to be catching hold of _Miss Susan_ anytime soon, what with his new… handicap… and all."

Then they were racing beside the Pickwicks, who'd both settled their score in favor of enjoying the breakneck race down the bumpy drive. Percy caught James' eye and the both of them grinned. It was not long before they were streaking down the waking streets through the town and it took less time than James could have thought to cross it. The ride almost seemed too short as Jonathan tugged the reins to put Altair at a gallop. Both horses circled around the waiting carriage at a trot and before he knew it, James was stepping down onto the street.

Pilot Major Starling drew back the carriage drapes with an exasperated sigh. There was little resemblence between them—Jonathan's fancy face reflected more his mother—but matched they were, father and son, at exuberant hand gestures. The Pilot Major shook a fist at Jonathan.

"Late again!"

Jonathan winced, his own hands flying up in defense. "_Sorry_!"

Jonathan's father shook his head, snapped the drape back, and stepped out of the carriage to take both horses by the reins. He was not a tall man, but he made up for stature by his stern expression. "You're to be on your best behaviour, as you know. Exemplary, in fact." He handed off Delano's reins to his attendant, but his dark eyes were fixed steady upon his smirking son. "Tirwitter deserves the utmost respect, as does its keeper."

He gave them no choice to refute as he nodded all four of them—Percy, Patrick, Jonathan, and James—into the carriage. They piled in, James and Percy to the front seat and their older counterparts to the back. Soon as they and their things were settled about Starling's too many trunks and satchels, the carriage took off and sent the lot of them into a heap of limbs. Jonathan detangled himself first, scrambled upon the seat, and wrenched the drapes apart to grin out the back window at the Pilot Major and his attendant.

"Au revoir," he crowed, cupping his hands around his mouth so that his shout carried. "Next time you see us, we shall be toting turkeys!"

"Aye," Patrick panted, hauling himself up beside Starling. "With any luck."

James accepted a hand up from a helpful Percy and lifted his pack gingerly from the gaggle of luggage that was mostly Starling's. He frowned down at the mess at their feet, wondering what contraptions the cartographer had toted along and if any would be at all useful to their hunt. Of the last he'd heard tell, Starling's many instruments had not helped he and the Pickwicks catch tail of the slightest rabbit, but they had, after several days, got the three of them out of the woods. Not wanting to dwell upon the prospect of spending more than a day lost in the woods with Starling, James sat back and set to fix himself in high spirits. He was, afterall, on his way to the Great Goat's hunting grounds at Tirwitter.

-------------------------

_**Author's Babble:** Don't you hate when you upload the wrong document, and do not realize that you have done so even after you have put the author's notes on the end?! I do. I apologize. There's a good chunk here that wasn't when it was posted and I am sorry to have done this to any of you! Thanks, the lot of you. Mssparrington, _I hope that where I take this pleases you_. Eledhwen,_ you will most definitely not be eating your hat_. Alteng, _yes he did turn out to be a nice fellow didn't he_? Lykosdracos, _I too tell James not to pledge his soul despite knowing what it is we know about his future.


	4. To Tirwitter

**W**est they traveled from London to Tirwitter, and long was the route. They followed alongside the River Thames for much of the first day. It ended them up in the Cotswolds by nightfall. Rather than brave the roads in the dark what with the threat of highwaymen hiding in the hills, they had stayed the night in a warm room of a pleasant inn. In confidence James had expressed to Percy his alarm at having not brought with him a purse of coin, but had been slightly mollified by his friend's assurances that Starling had already seen to the expense—as well as to the expenses of their coachman. Indeed, Jonathan had at breakfast on the morn refused Patrick's money, flicking it back across the table at the wide-eyed Pickwick. After they'd stuffed their guts they had packed up and picked up the trail onward.

Through the hills they bumped along, cramped in the crowded coach. With bellies so full they were drowsy by that mid-afternoon. James had nodded off several times. The last had even been in the midst of the third Pickwick dispute that he and Jonathan had suffered since they had taken leave of the inn. Upon waking, James had been most grateful to find that the Pickwicks had they themselves drifted off to sleep, but he hadn't been so keen on the idea of keeping conversation with Starling who too was awake. Oddly enough, Jonathan seemed as much uncomfortable as he. The both of them had stared across the carriage at each other with wary looks on their faces for what seemed hours of travel before Patrick snorted awake. James had nearly breathed a sigh of relief, and he had turned his face toward the window to watch as the scenery changed from grey to white, snow blanketing their route northwest.

Winter it was in Wales. Several times had snow squalled to slow their carriage. It was only as they passed through the valley that led into the woods at Tirwitter that the snow fell heavy white upon them, however, and for that James was certain they were all thankful. Perhaps, he thought with a twist of his cheek, the coachman was thankful most of all.

As was the Forest of Dean rife with nature's finest, so was the wood that made up the bulk of Tirwitter. Many woodland animals made their home there, making the place a favorite for sporting amongst the high-society folk whom kept good with the Witter family. Situated at the base of a snow-capped green mountain, the sprawling hunting estate was thick with tall trees and wound with icy streams.

Along one such stream followed the winding road up to the log-built lodge. Even the sight of it filtered through the straggly branches of the bare-limbed trees was impressive. Large it was and tall it stood. Soaring windows glowed gold and warm against the cold blue of falling night and snow. A massive cotswold chimney furled a ribbon of smoke into the air, reminding James of the great hearth inside which was, in the chill of night, a welcome thought as they passed through the open gate.

They'd barely pulled up to the entry when the wide double doors swung wide to reveal a tall figure dark against the firelight flickering inside. Two slighter figures strode before the first down the flatrock risers. James squinted out the window as they neared and found that the two before were not so small on their own but dwarfed in stature by the man strolling stately behind. As impressive as the lodge looming behind him, there was only one man he could be.

Though the thought that Tirwitter's keeper would be present whilst they took harbor there had not at all crossed James' mind, there was no doubt that it was Onry Witter himself who was coming to greet them. It seemed to James that Captain Witter was large as the name he'd made for himself in the King's colonies. Privateer he'd been, this tall man aplomb as a proud peacock. Indeed, Onry Witter had been the Captain of several fleets and Commander of several campaigns in the West considered so successful that the King Himself had seated the man in Port Royal, Jamaica as Governor. Not only a decorated Man of the King, Witter was a man of enterprise as well. It was not only his name that brought wealth to the Witters, but his own endeavor to further the family in their trade of importing and exporting the world's finest spirits with one of their own—a dark, syrupy rum refined on the grounds of the Great Goat's own sugarcane plantation. It stood to reason that so powerful a man would seem as such and indeed, James thought as Onry Witter neared, he did.

A great cloak trimmed with fur he wore draped over his broad shoulders. It swept the snow behind his big black boots as he strolled down the flatrock and its heavy drape flared out to reveal the finery beneath as he brought a hand up to tug upon his braided beard. That golden plait was tied with a small bow matching the blood red of his ensemble. The closer he got, the clearer his countenance became—brows drawn and jaw set square though a smile tugged his lips up under his golden mustache. This face was framed by a mane of gold that swept back over his head and down over the red of his cloak.

Even as he was ushered out of the crowded carriage by a clucking Jonathan Starling, James could not look away from Onry Witter. It was only as he realized that the man was standing directly before him that he blinked. A panicked gaze up found calm grey eyes.

"Hullo."

It was the simplest of greetings, but said in such a deep timbre of voice that it seemed somehow grand. James was pondering this as Onry Witter exchanged pleasantries with Starling and Patrick, and nearly missed his pack being pressed into his hands by an exasperated Percy. Nary a heartbeat later and the five of them were trailing the Great Goat's men—who despite their own broad shoulders struggled under the weight of all Starling's luggage—into the warm glow of the lodge.

James had, in fact, been to Tirwitter before. It was the same place Brian had brought him to hunt, and he remembered well the wooden staircase that lined the great room. So wide it was, and thick with oakwood, that James had marveled at the idea that its timber could make up the bulk of a small warship. Brian had laughed…

_"Think your head's a bit muddied from all that travel," his brother told him, but he was grinning. "Warship Witter eh?"_

_James ignored this jibe and ducked his brother's reach. It'd taken him much too long learning it the best policy as regarding Brian's fondness for mussing his only too glad to be messed hair. "Don't!"_

_But it seemed that such was the wrong thing to say to Brian Norrington, for he was the sort who was only more determined when presented with a challenge. James knew he'd made a mistake the moment protest had burst from his mouth and, with wide eyes, darted forward toward the steps. It was to no avail; Brian's stride was longer than his short legs would take him and so James found himself grasped about the head by two large hands whose fingers were wreaking havoc in his hair._

_Brian's laughter rang out, too loud. It seemed to shake James, and then the sound of it echoed all around him… _

Shivering, James reached for his hair to fix it but felt that it was not mussed. He frowned as his hand came away and avoided Percy's curious glance in his direction by fixing his gaze straight ahead.

Behind them, Witter was stopped by his brother. Wilhelm, who was frowning worriedly, and a panting yeoman seemed to require his attention and so the Goat waved James and his companions on with his men. They followed. Up the staircase and around the room they went, and passed behind the round chimney to where hid the hall to the bunkrooms. Paintings of men and their dogs lined the hall, all manner of fowl and beast being their sport. Past several doors they went to the third on the right and through it found a cavernous room made cozy by a small hearth and many quilts piled high upon the five beds. A feast had been laid out upon a sidetable, a stack of plates beside it. James' mouth watered at the sight, and he was ever glad when the two men dumped Starling's things, shot the oblivious gent a dark glance, and left them to their dinner.

They scarcely uttered a word throughout their consumption of the roast duck and all its accoutrements, but there seemed good cheer amongst them despite it. Starling offered a silent toast with his mug of drink and went on slurping and snacking with the rest of them without a word. Miraculously, Percy and Patrick managed the entire meal without a scuffle. James noted this with half a smile around his pudding spoon and then he placed the flatware in its empty bowl.

"What's with you?" Percy leaned forward, frowning slightly at him. His gaze flit up at James' forehead and back over his sleek dark hair. "You looked a bit itchy when we first come in."

"Itchy?" James shrugged, but his heart thudded painfully in his chest at the reminder of his latest remembrance of his fallen brother. He glanced around the room, at all the paintings of fowl and beast, anywhere but at his friend. "S'pose a bit."

"Maybe it's the air."

"Could be," offered Patrick in passing, "it is rather a prickly bit cold here isn't it?"

Percy ducked his brother's playful smack and frowned as though something had just occurred to him. "Reckon Nolan's here with his Da?"

James shrugged. "Wouldn't know."

"Only wee Witter here," said Starling as he stretched out on the chaise before the fire, "is the little dove herself."

Percy rounded on the man, his brows together. "What's a girl doing here?"

Jonathan, who could not have had any part in that, flinched backwards and shrugged.

"You'll be civil," warned Patrick to Percy, "or you'll be tossed to the Goat for sport."

To James this sounded rather like impending doom and so he decided that he, himself, would certainly carry on with civility in the face of feminine company. He doubted the girl would be much around them as it was—surely a hunt did not interest a girl of her stature. Though, were it Susan Sutton…

"James, are you even listening?"

He snapped out of it and looked at Percy, not surprised to find his friend's frazzled face. By the desperate look of it, Percy had been going on about ridding Tirwitter of womenfolk—creatures whose company he often protested—and expected James' agreement to his proposal. James, however, felt that the argument was a lost cause. Alice was Witter by name and so Tirwitter was as much her own as it was the Goat's.

"James," Percy said. "Don't tell me you think she should be here!"

James stole a glance at Starling and Patrick, both of whom seemed suspiciously uninterested in the conversation at hand, and offered a frown to his best mate. Being tossed to the Great Goat's mercy was not his idea of a jolly good time and so he could only shrug helplessly. "Isn't much my place to say." Wanting very much to not end up in argument as so often did Patrick with Percy, he searched his mind for a change of topic fast as he could. "The custard."

Percy's brows lifted.

James fought the urge to wallop himself—and Starling for the knowing look the rake shot him—and decided the best course of action was to follow through. "It was tasty, don't you think?"

It was to his advantage that at that moment there was a brisk banging on their chamber door. They had not answered it when it burst open to accommodate the Great Goat's stride into the room. His fur-trimmed cloak snapped at his heels. It spun out around him as he turned to lay a heavy hand upon Patrick's shoulder. For a moment he wore no expression, and then his smoky eyes smoldered at each of them in turn while his mustache quivered. When it straightened itself impressively on his face, he set his gaze upon the highest point of the ceiling and spoke.

"Boys," he said, voice quite grave, "there was just behind yours another arrival." Looking up at the ceiling, he could not see their glances exchanged and so continued. "With it comes sad news. I trust that you will lament as I did the Admiral's ill-met shin…"

James nearly asked if the man meant Admiral Sutton but quickly bit his lip. Such a question would be good as guilt. He glanced at Starling and found much the same look on his face. Feeling a bit better for this, James looked away and back to their host, who by this time was shaking his head sadly at nothing in particular.

"Alas, brothers," said he, "Admiral Sutton's shin is determinedly… busted—and likely in two places at that. Seems he will be… hobbling… for a time."

"What a _rotten_ shame," Jonathan put in.

Patrick nodded. "Must smart something _awful_."

Onry Witter's mustache twitched, and his grey eyes glinted a bit though his voice was tinged with something of sadness. "It _is_ and I do bet it _does_." His gaze abruptly met Jonathan's and his mouth quirked up. "Way I hear it, he cranked up such a howl all the wild dogs came running, worried for their wounded friend."

"He is something of a mongrel," Starling agreed. He frowned then, his eyes narrowing on Witter's. "Who was it brought this news?"

"Hawk VonCoch."

Four glances met. James saw upon the faces of his comrades the same hesitation that stuck him. He bit his lip. Patrick Pickwick opened his mouth but promptly shut it. Percy's mouth was agape. Jonathan Starling's lip curled, and his dark eyes gleamed in the firelight as if laughter lit them.

Who'd have thought, James wondered, that such a man as Captain Onry Witter would share in their sentiments as regarding old man VonCoch? But it seemed that he did share their general dislike for the man, for the Great Goat looked just as unhappy to have received the arrival of VonCoch to Tirwitter as they'd all been to receive news of it. Indeed, there was a strange twitch to his mustache—the sort that usually meant its wearer's nose had to its dismay got whiff of life's foulest odor.

"My brother is tending him at the moment," said the Goat, "as Wilhelm is better suited to pandering than I. However, I do think His Grace shall find his demands to see you tossed out unmet."

"Tossed out?" Percy's eyes flashed defiantly at this suggestion and he ignored the tempered look from his brother in favor of scowling up at Onry Witter. "Well His ruddy Grace can gripe much as he wants! I'll not leave!"

James, not near as courageous as that, paled under the Great Goat's unreadable gaze. "I—I think—what—I th—think what he means is 'unless you ask us to leave', sir." He gulped. "Governor." He gulped again. "Captain Witter, sir."

"Young Norrington," Witter said, leaning down to look him hard in the eye, "I'd sooner see VonCoch tossed out before any one of you boys. You and yours were invited to take what is mine as if brothers we be." He frowned. "VonCoch is accepted here only as courtesy to the King, though _what_ Henley sees in the fool of his family I have yet to figure."

Starling's laugh was cut short as the Great Goat's glare found him.

"This conversation, Mister Starling—and the rest of you, is to stay within the confines of these walls," he warned. "I do not wish to find His Grace any more unreasonable than already he is and I daresay hearing himself referred to as a fool would quite do the trick." His mouth twisted then turned up in a smile. "Now, won't you join us by the hearth? Mulled the mead myself."

Though they four exchanged glances again—for they knew, all of them, that Hawk VonCoch, and likely his intolerable progeny, would be waiting—it was only for a moment and then they followed Onry Witter out. It was as he was nearly to it that the first door on the left swung open to admit its occupant into the hall. Alice Witter, white curls a jamble and robed in too much white lace, frowned up at her startled uncle and then peered around his cloak to gander at the rest of them. A small 'o' her mouth made and with two spots of pink in her pale cheeks she ducked back behind the cover of cloak.

"Niece," said Onry, "I thought you were abed."

"_Please_, Uncle," chided her tart chirp of a voice, "there is no sleeping when the house smells of mead!"

"True enough, little one, true enough," he said. "Come along with us and you'll have a cup."

James watched Alice take the Great Goat's giant hand and saw her fall into step beside the man, but looked away as her grey glare struck at him over her shoulder. He glanced at Percy then followed his friend's gaze out and over the banister. Their worst fears were confirmed—Hawk VonCoch was indeed having words with Wilhelm Witter, who was frowning much more worriedly than before, and his son was standing guard smirking up at them.

"Uncle," Alice was whispering, "why did no one tell me that we were expecting… guests… to stay?"

"Mind your manners," was the curt reply.

"But," she hissed, "it is only that I would not venture from my chamber in naught but my nightclothes were I to know!"

Beside him, James heard Percy snicker. Not wanting to bring the wrath of either Witter down upon them, he elbowed his friend in the ribs—just as Patrick took it upon himself to thwack his brother across the back of the head. Percy let out a shriek of protest that merited a snort from Starling and whipped Alice around to stare at them. Instantly they schooled themselves to their previous show of decorum, staring back at her as if she'd no reason to be gaping at all. With a 'hmmph' she whirled forward, descended the last few steps, and then let go of her uncle's hand. A mad dash across the room caught the still smirking Charles' eye. Pity it didn't keep it, though. His hateful stare found its way back to the rest of them fast enough. The snot's father turned, his beak pointing at them as he showed a tight smile to the Great Goat.

"Charles," boomed Onry, "has my boorish brother not offered you a cup of mulled mead?"

"Why, he did," said the man, lip curling just a bit, "but it is not to my taste."

"Oh?" Onry Witter chuckled. It was a great rumbling that seemed to thrum from his broad chest and quake upon his shoulders. "No I suppose it is much too simple a drink for a fancy man like yourself." He ignored the fleeting look of anger that crossed the man's face and stepped past him, cocking his head at a frowning Wilhelm. "Wine instead?"

"Yes," snipped VonCoch, "thank you. And for my son, I should prefer he drink a dark tea."

This, thankfully, drew Charles' hateful stare away from James and his companions. The glare found his father, and a great wealth of fire came into his dark eyes as it did so. James exchanged a look with Percy and they bounded toward the other side of the room to warm themselves by the fire. A glance back over found Hawk VonCoch exchanging what looked to be stiff pleasantries with Starling and Patrick, and James was most glad that he and Percy had taken the chance to escape from under his nose.

"Charles shall have a _dark tea_, James," mocked Percy quietly. "I should prefer he not partake of the commoner's drink and would instead like him to have a _dark tea_."

James couldn't help but crack a smile at that.

"Perhaps if they'd told him all the dark tea is in China, he would set off for holiday."

"Well he's not an idiot." Alice Witter's sharp words turned them around and she looked from one wary face to the other before going on. "Not that much of one."

Startled by this, James looked round at Percy. Percy's eyes were as wide and he looked set to speak, but something caught his attention and he averted his gaze. James followed it across the room where Hawk VonCoch stood staring down his nose at Starling, whose dark eyes gleamed as his hands gestured wildly. Patrick, beside him, looked mightily weary. James couldn't really blame him, he would probably be as lessly enthused were Starling's exuberant hands slashing the air so close to his head.

"Here boys."

Onry Witter's gruff voice turned James around and he goggled at the large mug being stuffed into his hands. It was so big, James thought, that fingers from both hands barely met to grasp it. The sweet aroma that filled the place steamed up at him from the golden surface of the still bubbling mead. He sniffed at it and was rewarded with a smell he had not detected before. Spice, it was, and warmed him as he inhaled.

"Got it, have you?"

Percy seemed to have had a worser time accepting the mug. It was too big for his hands and kept trembling as his fingers strained to keep hold of it. But there was a determined light in his eyes, even as the mead threatened to slosh his front. "Yes, I have."

James raised a brow at this, for surely the Goat knew as he did that Percy was mistaken in the matter. He glanced up—way up—at the man. Though Witter was smiling kindly, there was a worried look in his grey eyes as Percy struggled silently with the mug. It was as the mead did slosh in the air that a great hand shot out to steady the thing.

"Mebbe a smaller mug?"

There was no mistaking the disappointment that dulled Percy's eyes as Onry relieved him of his burden. Frowning slightly, Witter glanced at his other hand. There glittered a great golden goblet encrusted with glittering gems. It seemed to brighten the man's face and then he offered it forward, a small smile playing under his great mustache.

"Mebbe this, my own goblet, eh?"

Percy's eyes widened as he accepted the thing. His hands wrapped easily around the thick golden stem under the cup. Eyes alight, he looked up—way, way up—at the beaming man and flushed scarlet. "'M honored, sir," he breathed, taking a deep swallow of the mulled mead. To his credit, he did not splutter. Instead, he seemed to stand taller than before. "You make a mean mead!"

Seemingly satisfied with this, the Great Goat took a gulp of mead from the great mug that looked small held in just one of his hands. His grey eyes narrowed. A curt nod and he patted Percy on the shoulder. "Good enough." His gaze switched to James. "What say you, Norrington?"

James, though, was a bit timid about trying his mead as it was still bubbling. That usually meant it was too hot to be tasted. But he did not want to disappoint Onry Witter and so he took a small sip off the edge of his mug. Turned out that the stuff wasn't too hot—but it was deeply warming. James took a bigger gulp so that it spread fire through his belly. It was almost overwhelming. Feeling heady, he hurriedly took another glug of the stuff.

"Easy there," warned the Goat. "It'll go to your head quicker than you think."

"It's warm," James told him. "Very, very warm."

Onry Witter chuckled and patted him fondly on the head. "That it is, boy. That it is."

"Indulging these delinquents in drink, are you Witter?" The unpleasant voice of Hawk VonCoch cut sharp through the warmth that seemed to be spreading around them and James couldn't stand it; he took a mouthful of mead and none too soon, for the unpleasant man with the unpleasant voice had joined them by the hearth. "Really. What _would_," he asked, sneer upon his face, "their _parents_ think?"

Hearing this, Percy took a particularly noisy sip of mead. James frowned, first down at his mug and then up at VonCoch, who had never quite looked more hawkish than he did at that moment, and tried to figure why he felt an odd pang in his gut. He hoped it wasn't the mead…

Witter, though, was looking livid insofar as James could tell. He'd gone pale along his tense jaw, and a darkness in the grey eyes that stormed at VonCoch. Even his knuckles were white. James had the impression that he was gripping his mug much too tight.

"Oh," said VonCoch, sounding startled, "silly me. How could I forget? There is not so much a problem as there is but one set of parents to worry about—young Norrington _hasn't_ any." He put his wine glass to his lips but did not drink. "Quite unfortunate…"

James' stomach heaved and he found himself gripping his mug near tight as Onry Witter was.

"Speaking," cut in Starling's voice, "of unfortunate… how long you think the Admiral's going to be bedridden with that injury of his, eh VonCoch?"

James felt as breathless as he did when he ran too far too fast. His eyes widened as VonCoch reared around to face Starling, who was followed closely by Patrick and Wilhelm Witter. Both looked wary. Even Charles, behind them, looked much subdued—but James guessed that that was because of the dainty cup of what was probably a dark tea set in his hand. Not wanting at all to catch his eye, James looked back to the matter at hand and found VonCoch and Starling eye to eye before him.

"Ah," breathed VonCoch, "but I think we both know that is none of your concern, don't we Starling?"

Jonathan didn't flinch under the man's cold gaze, but his brows did inch up just a bit. There was a momentary pause and then he flashed a smug smile at Hawk VonCoch. "Right you are, man. I've little to no concern for that old canker." He frowned and took a drink from his own cup, eyes still on VonCoch's. As he swallowed, his lips turned up in a smirk. "But I do think it the best policy to play at being polite, don't you Charlie?"

"You," snarled VonCoch, making a sudden move but seeming to think better of it as Wilhelm Witter frowned gravely at him over Starling's shoulder. He recovered his composure quickly and his voice was again cold when he spoke. "Have the courtesy of a boar not to address me by title—"

"Ah yes," said Starling, "your _title_. Traditional for the cousin of the King—but wholly undeserved—"

"You tread a thin line, Starling. Your mouth is but one step away from speaking treasonous words—men have been _hanged_ for less."

"Oh," breathed Jonathan, his dark eyes burning black, "_have_ they?"

Something changed in VonCoch's face then. The vein that had popped at his temple and throbbed there receded. Skin that had been taught went lax, and the hot fire that had burned in Hawk VonCoch's eyes went out, replaced by cold darkness. He inclined his head, studying Jonathan calmly. "Of course," he sneered. "I seldom bluff, Starling."

Onry Witter took the calm in the midst of the storm to suggest, with too wide a yawn, that they all retire for the night. Percy scowled at both VonCochs, and then at Starling as he handed over his goblet of mead. But so relieved Patrick looked that James felt certain his friend's brother had thought the heated discussion a dangerous one. Wondering at that, he nearly missed the Great Goat's hand as he gave over his mug. Stuttering an apology, and wishing to not stand under either of the Charles' sneers any longer, James made for the stairs. He heard the others tramping up behind him. Alice skittered past, sparing him a strangely sad glance, and slipped into the room she'd earlier emerged from. James paused there, staring at the door.

Only too often did people look upon James that way; only too often did they seem to pity him, and every time they did he hated it more. Anger seethed in his throat as he pondered throwing the door open and wrenching Alice Witter back out by the hair. Perhaps then she'd have herself to pity—

"Come on," groused Percy. He grabbed James by the shoulder and dragged him toward the door that Patrick opened. "Stupid VonCochs, they ruin everything!"

Starling stalked past them, found his bed first, and was out before any of the rest of them could turn down their own covers. Percy made a face at the soft snores so close to him, but soon disappeared under his pillow without a word. James crawled under the quilts and sat until he was certain Patrick had extinguished the fire. Then, as darkness fell, he flopped back onto his pillow and stared up at the canopy, wondering soon as he did what had made Alice, who previously had not seemed to care either way, look upon him with pity…

_**Author's Babble:** Tried to get this out last month but did not and so here it is. Thanks all for reading, and many thanks to those of you reviewing!Mssparrington,_ thanks very much. I was hoping that the chapter would be both miserable and comical and so I am glad to hear that it read that way for you! _Lykosdracos,_ I'm not so sure I hold the mischief making men in as high esteem LOL thank you :)


	5. War Games

**H**unting, as it happened, proved less enjoyable than James had hoped for. Crunching through the snow in boots that were not his own, James Norrington considered that perhaps teas with the woman in the attic would not have been as miserable. It seemed a hopeless situation, hunting at Tirwitter did, and every dreary day was made none the better by their being cross with one another. The contention among them was, as Percy had blown out in one hot breath that marked the cold, due to the oppressive presence of the VonCochs.

James, who'd been sore at his friend since the morning incident in which Percy had griped about James' borrowed boots—which were the absent Nolan Witter's and two marks bigger than made a good fit for James—slowing them down, stuffed his pride and agreed that it was indeed the VonCochs who had made matters so difficult to swallow.

Charles and Charles had risen early each morn to take the best of the munitions out into the best patches of the forest which were, they had stressed to the gamesmen, expressly theirs to occupy and hunt. Each day the sullen gamesmen handed off a map to Starling with orders not to stray in the direction marked and each day, after long hours spent in vain stumbling over the icy ground and narrowly avoiding soaks in freezing waters, the lot of them returned to the lodge in time to watch attendants struggle under the weight of heaps of prey slain by the proud VonCochs. On that, the third eve, James stood with the others watching Hawk VonCoch sneer in admiration at one of his deadened beasts when Starling had shifted the pack on his back and snapped that the rest of them should hurry on to rid themselves of their burdens. James stared after him as he stalked, still outfitted for the hunting, into the lodge.

"Where's _he_ off to?"

Percy shrugged, quiet as he had been by the end of each fruitless day. James sighed and followed the Pickwicks to do what Starling had ordered. There was little consolation in the attending gamesman's apologies. James scowled as the man took his ill-fitting boots and followed Percy—who was to James' guilty pleasure pink around the edges—into the lodge and up the stairs to their room where waited their dinner.

The meal, however, was tasteless. They indulged in it without the mirth they had the first time they'd supped here together. When they'd finished, and Starling still had yet to return, Patrick took out the Bible and James turned away from the brothers as he did not want to think of the last time he'd laid eyes on the Good Book…

James scowled, thinking of the way Alice Witter had looked at him. Just what he thought of her pity he longed to tell her but since that eve he'd seen her only once and she had been in the company of Charles the younger. James hadn't dared to approach them. Not only was he as sore as the others for the VonCochs' dominion over hunting grounds—he was quite unsure just how Charles might make to belittle him and sure for certain that in any case it would simply make Alice Witter pity him all the more.

"And worse," he murmured, "would treat me better than she would if otherwise as well."

To James' dismay the voices that had been arguing about the Exodus stopped and when he looked up two sets of green eyes were fixed as sadly as hers had been on him. James bit back his anger on count of these being friendly faces. He was wondering what to say to them when the door burst open to admit Starling to the room.

"Turn down the sheets, lads," he said, dark eyes gleaming. "Early to bed, early to rise makes a man stealthy and wins him the prize."

The three of them watched with some degree of weariness as the young gent led by example, stripping down to a nightshirt and all but leaping into his bed. Percy, who'd been complaining for days that he got little to no rest on count of the fool's snoring, wrinkled his nose in silent complaint but dragged himself to the neighboring bed anyway. Patrick and James glanced at each other and then looked questioningly at Jonathan who stared back at them with wide, innocent eyes. That, James thought with trepidation, could not be genuine…

"What's the rush?" Patrick scoffed. "Isn't as if we're going to get to much hunting on the morrow anyway."

"Well, you know what they say," Jonathan drawled, dropping back against his pillows and smiling serenely up at the canopy of his bed, "the early bird catches the worm."

James was certain that he'd only just closed his eyes when an insistent tap on his shoulder jerked him from sleep. Up from his pillow he jolted, dragging his blankets with him. There was, to his horror, a figure looming over him and he gasped.

"P—pirates!"

A low, throaty chuckle that could've been a pirate's sounded, but it was Starling's face that poked too close to his. True to his word he'd been—for it had to be earlier than any of them would normally wake of their own accord. James glared into the dark eyes gleaming at him in the darkness.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Jamesy," said Jonathan, "but there's no pirates here—less you count ol' Onry as one."

"Onry Witter is a privateer," James asserted, lifting his chin. "He is not a filthy pirate."

"Oh I'm not sure about that—cunning enough." Starling grinned and clapped a hand on James' shoulder. "Let's get to it shall we?"

But it was not without a struggle that the two of them wrangled both Pickwicks from their beds. Patrick's voice was of a petulant pitch as he pleaded with Jonathan to stay abed "just a bit longer". Percy was no better, diving back under the covers each time they were yanked off him, though James did count himself lucky for his friend's stubborn silence in the matter. He counted himself even luckier when Patrick, who'd come to realize his dreams of staying abed were much as shattered, did the work for him.

"If I have to get up, so do you."

James stepped aside and just in time. Patrick wasted not a step as he heaved the blankets off and Percy up. He dropped his brother heavily on the floor.

Percy blinked at the three pairs of feet around him. Scowling at his brother's, he leapt up off the floor. By the looks on both Pickwicks' faces James guessed thunderclouds would clap softer than their impending argument. It was, he thought, a very good thing that Jonathan Starling's hands clapped quiet each of the brothers' mouths.

"Shhh," he breathed, dark eyes darting between the Pickwicks. "The hawks are sleeping."

It was the first time in days that real light shone in Percy's eyes. Patrick, too, looked quite a bit happier to be awake. When Starling let loose their mouths, the both of them beamed at him.

"Brilliant!"

But less brilliant was their sneaking down the stairs. Wooden they were and creak they did. Each step James took seemed louder than the next. Several times did Starling glower at him over his shoulder and by the time they'd made it to the bottom it had been one time too many. James, quite ruffled, stepped hard on the gent's foot and watched with a certain sense of glee as Starling struggled to stifle what James guessed by his wide eyes would have been a startled shout. Figuring it best to leave him hopping behind, James ran ahead with Percy to ready their breakfast in the otherwise empty kitchen.

They were quick and quiet about it. When they'd packed in what they could eat they packed up what they couldn't. They stuffed their packs with smoked fish and lamb and even a few sacks of raisins. Starling took the task of filling their flasks and canteens with water and made fast of it. When satisfied they went through the hall that led into the groundskeeper's office.

Two of the three gamesmen were snoozing on their cots, their green jackets muffling their snores. The third, however, was awake and sitting at a table with a steaming mug in his hand. He was not alone. Old Tom, the groundskeeper, was sorting through an assemblage of brass keys and Onry Witter himself stood frowning over the fellow's shoulder at the jumble.

"Good morning gentlemen," said Starling without the slightest hesitation, "we're here to stake claims."

Old Tom's head snapped up and the gamesman jolted. Tea splashed his green coat. Onry Witter, though, seemed to have been expecting them. When he looked up at them there was no surprise on his face—only a fair bit of amusement.

"Ahh, boys," he said with a wink at Starling. "Up early today?"

"Early bird gets the worm," Percy said.

Onry's face brightened with a wide grin at that. He considered Starling and on appraisal seemed to approve. "And so he has." He took from the gamesman's pocket a quill and offered it forth to Starling, nodding at the map Old Tom had swept his keys out of the way to lay atop the table. "Mark your territory."

There was a second's hesitation that James could not for the life of him understand but then Starling accepted the quill and stepped forward to consider the map. Patrick took the time to strike up a conversation with Old Tom. The boys, Percy and James, took the opportunity to gawk at Onry Witter while the man watched Starling's work intently. When the cartographer at long last made the last careful swoop of red ink, he laid the quill carefully upon the map and stood up to look the privateer in the eye.

"And no one without my express consent is to touch what's marked mine," he said, "savvy?"

Onry laid a hand on Starling's shoulder. "How could I refuse the request of a man who has proved he takes every care and consideration to even the slightest of details?" He drew the gent in close, embracing him in a way that was not unlike the clasp of brotherhood. James looked away; he busied himself with studying the parts of Tirwitter that Starling had marked out for them to hunt. "Yes, you alone will have what is yours to take. Lewis?"

The gamesman straightened, looking glad to be called on. "Yes Sir?"

"Do make copy of this to ensure no other men make the mistake of stepping where they ought not?"

Lewis stared down his nose at the map. His gaze traced the various red lines upon it—all encompassing the best grounds and cutting through the worst so as to make them impossible to navigate for any who hadn't Starling's consent to step foot on his territory—and one eyebrow inched up. "Certainly, Sir."

"Easy as that," Witter told Starling. "Shall you consent to the company of my brother?"

Jonathan folded his hands neatly behind his back and gave a curt nod. "Of course."

"What of you?" Percy, it seemed, couldn't help himself—when the two men turned to eye him, he flushed scarlet but stared determinedly back. "Will you have a hunt with us, Captain Witter, sir?"

"I would much enjoy that," said Onry, "but I must see to the keeping of other matters." He looked at Starling whose eyes widened innocently. "And you shan't worry on that… I've the sharpest of eyes, sharper than even a—hawk's…"

Patrick, whose conversation with Old Tom had long since dwindled, turned a curious ear to the conversation but it seemed it was the end of it. Starling had started giving a list of names with his consent to hunt their marked land. James shrugged and followed Percy out to where the gear was stowed. They pulled and piled it on, watching as the groundsmen—who had been promptly waked by the groggy look of them—sorted through the munitions for the very best they had to offer. James accepted two longshot rifles with utterings of his thanks. Percy, beside him, was handed an archer's bow. He glowed as Lewis strapped the quiver of arrows to his back. It was not until they were, the four of them, trudging merrily through the snow that Patrick Pickwick's curiosity got the best of him.

"Was that about," he asked Starling, "what I think it was about?"

Jonathan raised a brow. "More than likely."

"But—" Patrick spluttered. "You can't be—"

"James," said Starling over him, "what sort of prey's our prerogative today?"

Two sets of eyes settled on James. He was doing his best not to fall behind in the bothersome boots that did not fit. He scowled and put a resolute foot forward, passing Patrick who was yet staring at Starling as if the gent had gone undeniably mad. James garnered some amusement from the look on the older Pickwick brother's face and it served him well as he thought on something he wished not to think on at all—his last hunting expedition at Tirwitter.

"Well," he said, "that depends on our aim, doesn't it?" He stopped to squint into the murky morning light of the woods they were fast approaching. His gaze swept left. "If we're wanting to capture our supper… I should think turkey, doe, or rabbit would do. There's ducks by the lake…" He looked right. "But if we're out for glory, there's fox and buck and beyond… there's bear."

"Oh no," said Patrick, freckles standing out on his pale face, "not again! Not this time. No, last time with the bear was once enough."

Percy smirked and flapped his arms at his brother. "Chicken."

"Least I'm not foolhardy—"

"You've a yellow belly, don't you?"

The four of them continued on to the sound of brothers bickering. Strangely enough, James felt relieved to hear their banter. It was not the irritable sort that had plagued them for the last several days but the brotherly back-and-forth to which James had grown accustomed. Stepping lighter, he followed Starling straight into the woods.

"We'll first see what's best for the taking, eh?"

James nodded, finding that approach better than any. "Sounds as if a plan."

"We cartographers are adept with the plotting, young James. Find our way in or out of anything," said Starling, glancing down at his copy of the map still clutched in his hand before sending a narrow look James' way. "But sometimes there is only one route to take."

"You make it out so simple," James complained.

Jonathan smirked. "On the contrary, Jamesy—I find I've a way to make things ever more complicated than already they are. But that's neither here nor there…" He frowned. "Or maybe it is, but no matter. Rabbits."

Indeed there were rabbits about. Long-footed tracks marked trails in the powder on the ground. Their burrows made visible indentations in the tufts of snowdrifts.

The four of them went still and silent, watching as one dark brown hare hopped into view. It, too, stopped in its tracks. Even its nose stopped twitching. James felt Percy move beside him and reached to still his friend's arm.

"No."

"What do you mean, no? We're out to hunt!"

"She's a mother."

"So? She's a hare, James—"

"She is a hare who is a mother."

Percy glared at him but dropped his arm. "Where's her bunnies then?"

James smiled, feeling much relieved and nodded toward the bank of snow above her head. Small heads with ears laid back waited for their mother's move towards their burrow. They made not a sound—all too obviously aware of what must seem certain danger between their family and their home.

"Good eye, lad," Patrick said. He smiled approvingly as he passed. "And a heart of gold to match."

"Aye," Starling agreed, stepping ahead, "that's our young Norrington."

Percy, however, was not as pleased with James' good intentions. He scowled for a time and remained mostly quiet so that the only sounds filling James' ears were the twigs snapping and snow crunching beneath their feet. James' heart would have been heavy were it not for his gladness to finally find himself in the heart of the woods at Tirwitter. Within that grove of trees he stopped to turn round—seeing possibilities in every direction. James was struggling to decide which way to go when the distinct sound of boots crunching through snow turned him around to glare suspiciously into the woods from whence they came.

"That," Starling growled, "had best not be either of those beaky buggers…"

Much to their relief it was not either of the VonCochs but Wilhelm Witter. He gave a quick nod in greeting to most of them but drew himself to his full height to stare down Jonathan Starling. James wasn't sure what it was all about, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Wilhelm did not take as much a liking to the young gent as his brother Onry—and everyone else, save the VonCochs, for that matter—seemed to.

"Sir," said Starling, extending a hand without his usual flourish.

Wilhelm took it but offered no smile in return. "Don't patronize me, lad. I'm not my brother and I'm no fool. We are quite different, as are you and I."

"Who am I to deny that?" asked Starling. "But I must say, Wilhelm, that I think none of the three of us fools."

"Yes, well," said Wilhelm, "we shall see about that, shall we?" He clapped a wary Jonathan on the shoulder and looked to the west. "Come to the lake and we shall fire at the fowl…"

"If," Percy snipped as they moved to follow, "James hasn't a softspot for ducks as well."

"Don't be such a cad, Percy," Patrick chided. "A duck could be somebody's mother."

James scowled though was not thinking on ducks but on his indecision in choosing a direction to follow. Was there truly any way to decide which possibilities would bear the best? He thought, worriedly, that there was not… the only certainty there could be was the choice in course and his will to see it through. But how, he wondered, could he ever choose a course of action if he did not know which course of action would yield better than worse?

The lake was glass reflecting the grey sky and dead trees. There was a hush to the place that invaded James' thoughts and once again he was glad for it. He hadn't been to the lake before and set to exploring it with his eyes as the five of them set up camp a good distance away on a mossy knoll.

A bit later he'd come to the swift conclusion that he did not so much mind preying on ducks whether or not they were mothers. He did not fancy their squawks. In fact, he once or twice found himself firing if only to startle them silent. In truth he was not so good with a rifle—missing all but one of his targets, the unluckiest of all. That duck, to his and the others' consternation, had fallen dead into the lake to be claimed not by James himself but by the water. A lengthy discussion as to why one should only shoot at the birds in flight _if_ they were not flying _over the lake itself_ followed his mistake and by the time it was done with James felt like telling Percy to take wing.

"At least I hit my mark."

Percy rolled his eyes, grabbed James' gun, aimed at the sky, and pulled the trigger. A crack filled the air around them with smoke but a terrible squawk overhead had them both clawing through it to see what the younger Pickwick had hit. Neither had luck in the matter, but as luck would have it, neither needed it: the bloody duck's body smacked right atop James' head. His eyes rolled up to evaluate its glossy feathers and then narrowed accusingly at Percy who beamed brightly back at him.

"And I mine."

"Well done, Percival," said Wilhelm Witter, eyeing the dead duck still limp on James' head with a certain sense of admiration. He turned to Starling, who had yet to hit mark, and raised his brows challengingly. "Who'd have thought a young boy could outhunt the son of the Pilot Major?"

James, not much for wanting a fowl wig, reached up and gingerly removed the duck from his head. He handed it off by the neck to Percy and frowned down at his bloodied hands. It was the first time he'd ever seen them so and it shook him so that he could not rest until Starling gave in and allowed him to the water's edge.

James dipped his hands in the cold water and hastened to rub them together. When he brought them up to survey the results he was not much pleased; the blood had stained his skin. He sighed and dipped them in again. A few frenzied scrubs later and James was still staring at the same bloodstained flesh. He gave a cry of dismay and backed away from the water, tucking his hands out of sight and into the warmth under his arms. It was no comfort, not knowing that there was still blood on his hands.

When he returned to the others they took no notice of him. Wilhelm had taken out and was eating a great crusty pastry that Patrick, who was munching on straggly dried meat, eyed jealously. Starling was glaring up at the grey sky and Percy was beaming on the three ducks he'd since shot, the first being the one whose blood now marked James' hands.

"Think I'll have one stuffed."

James said nothing and reached into his pack for the raisins he'd stowed there. He opened up the sack and dug out a handful that he quickly realized he could not eat for knowing his hands were stained beneath the fruit. With a sigh he dumped them back.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing," he lied to Percy. Being dishonest, though, was not James' forte and so he swallowed his pride and lifted his eyes to those of his worried friend. "I don't like having blood on my hands."

Percy frowned. "It'll fade, James."

"Not fast enough."

"Here," said Percy, grabbing up the raisins and yanking James' head back by the hair, "this'll do." He dumped a mouthful of the dried fruit in James' mouth that had opened to complain.

James chewed. Though he would have preferred Percy give him some warning as to what he had intended to do, James had to admit that he was glad both for the food and his friend's silence on his sudden sensibilities. He nodded his thanks, albeit a bit grudgingly, and swallowed the tart, sweet fruit.

"What do you think Wilhelm's got against Starling anyway?"

James shrugged. "I don't know."

Percy huffed. "Me either. But don't you think it's strange? Onry has as much contempt for VonCoch as we have, but his brother seems happy enough to bend about backwards for the beaky bugger…"

"Mayhaps it only seems so, Percy," said James. "For think on if not one of the Witters made nice with Hawk VonCoch what that might mean for their family fortune… Souring the cousin to the King seems like bad business to me."

"Hm—you could be right about that."

James shrugged. "Either way, does it much matter?"

Percy's green eyes darkened. "I don't like the VonCochs," he said. "I don't like them one bit. And I'm not sure any of us should like those who like them."

"I second that," Starling said. "Can't trust 'em a lick."

Patrick, who'd not quite finished drooling over Wilhelm Witter's pastry, distractedly nodded his assent.

The four of them looked curiously at Wilhelm Witter who, for all intents and purposes, seemed not to have heard one bit of their conversation. The man was polishing off the last of his treat. He took great care in brushing the crumbs off his coat. A great sigh heaved from him as his shoulders fell.

"Young Norrington is right," he said at last. "There is only so much hostility one can show Charles before Charles makes a show of hostility all his own. It is best for at least one of us to grin and bear his boorish banter…"

Even Starling looked mildly surprised at this statement having come from Wilhelm Witter. The man gave him a sharp look and took out another pastry. He tore it in half and handed the other piece to an instantly sheepish Patrick.

"Yes," Wilhelm agreed darkly with Starling, "you are the _last_ person to whom I'd have ever thought I'd tell such secrets." He gave the younger man an appraising look and then turned away with a frown. "Though I suppose there are worser wretches than you, young sir…"

If Jonathan was affronted he did not show it—in fact, for the insult he looked rather grateful. "Thank you kindly, Wilhelm."

"Don't thank me yet," warned the older man. "There goes along with my trust a certain responsibility."

"Yeah," muttered Patrick, "and she's bound to make you miserable."

Jonathan snorted and Wilhelm looked furious, but James and Percy exchanged bewildered glances. They'd both lost the thread of conversation. Nothing could they make of it and so gave up in favor of betting who'd get the next shot.

In the end it had been Starling. Wilhelm Witter's confidence seemed to have given Jonathan his swagger back. It was the turning point of the day as well. By mid-day they were thick in bodies of birds. A weary Wilhelm had piled every last one in his arms and retired their company for a reprieve at the lodge. It had been difficult convincing Jonathan that he needn't see the furious faces of the VonCochs but in the end Patrick's promise that they'd outfox the foxes held him back from following Wilhelm triumphantly through the woods.

It did not matter roundabout. As they returned on nightfall, foxes draped about their shoulders and Percy tugging two turkeys by their toes, all four of them walked with a spring in their step that the VonCochs could not hope to match. Charles and Charles looked on with matching scowls as the boys trampled smugly past to the stores.

"We'll sup," said Starling to the three of them, "and then we'll sleep."

"Another early morning, you think?"

"Oh yes," he told Patrick Pickwick, "I do believe another parade such as this is absolutely necessary."

It happened just as such. On that next day they rose quite early, earlier than the previous day, and made fast to the groundskeeper's office where Old Tom was the only soul awake. Starling approved the same map he'd charted before and with the help of two groggy gamesmen they were scurrying off into the woods before anyone had a say as to otherwise. They spent the day trapping and hunting, Percy exasperated as always when Starling pulled a stunt that ended up their prey making a hasty retreat. James, though, found no fault in this—he hadn't wanted to trap the hare in the first place. Patrick seemed as lessly worried as he, and indeed as they four sat down to break for a bite he told his younger brother in no uncertain terms to stuff it. Percy, predictably, spoke all the louder until the both of them were speaking at the top of their lungs calling each other names that had not sullied James' ears before. As interesting as this exchange was, James couldn't help but take an interest in what Starling was doing—consulting a small instrument James recognized as a compass.

"Lost, are we?"

Jonathan tsked the question away and rolled the compass in his palm. He stared down at the needle thoughtfully and turned his head up to the grey patches of sky showing through the boughs and branches. A smirk lifted his lip and he glanced down once more, first at the compass and then at the map he'd laid out beside him.

"Well if we're not lost," James persisted, "why consult the compass rose?"

"Why not?" Starling rolled up the map and tucked it away in his coat. He raised an eyebrow at James as if awaiting a response and when seeing by the glower of James' face that he'd not be getting one, rolled his eyes. "S'always best to know where one's going, young Norrington." He patted him on the head as he climbed to his feet. "Remember that. _Last one up on his feet with his mouth closed's a rotten egg_!"

Luckily, this bellow stuffed both Pickwicks' arguments and got them up off their rumps. But this bellow was followed shortly by another bellow not quite as loud. It had come from afar. James, who'd already been on his feet, turned sharply around and took a step in the general direction of whence it came. A hand on his shoulder held him back, however, and James watched Starling take a cautious step forward as Percy leapt ahead of him. A glance back found a pale-faced Patrick gone still as the animals they'd stalked.

Starling withdrew the map from his coat and snapped it open. He glared, first at it and then at the woods ahead. Darkness crept across his face as he studied the map and a snarl lifted his lip as he put it away. "Someone's out of bounds on our grounds." He reached back and took his rifle in hand. The frizzen snapped up to lock in place and he glared out through the forest. "Decided gentlemanly conduct's not a preferable nor pleasurable pursuit, I suppose."

"You can't mean to—to shoot them?"

Starling didn't answer James. He and Percy stalked ahead without a word. James moved to follow and remembering Patrick turned to give him a despairing look. The older Pickwick recovered himself quickly. He stomped forward, bringing James along by the arm. Soon they'd caught up with their two companions who were in the thick of a heated discussion as to how to trap the prey they were stalking.

"…ll be hiding—"

"Aye, 'hind a tree—"

"Or up it—"

"Up it?"

Percy shot the young gent a glare. "Aye, up in its branches!"

"Ah, but I don't think either of those fusscoats'd have the salt to be up a tree," Starling breathed, "though I must say, Percival, that I'd fancy a lookon during the attempt to get down."

"Do you mean," James asked fast, "you think it's the VonCochs?"

"Like as not," Jonathan said. "Onry's too busy for hunting, Wilhelm would have found us by now, and the gamesmen likely have had their fill of the hunt as its midseason. Can't see Lewis hunting haughty as he is. Doubt Old Tom's much for the task either. Only one's I figure'd be stupid—and snotnosed—enough to stomp our grounds without saying G'day… are the Beaky Brothers." He darkened and eyed the ground they were walking on. "And stupid enough to be trampling close to bear territory as well. Watch your step."

James looked down and glanced ahead in the direction they were walking. He saw what Jonathan meant to warn them of—rusty traps waiting to be sprung. They were meant to trigger by bear claw but James imagined that a man's—or lad's—foot would do just as well. He winced, remembering the surgeon's tools aboard the _Godspeed_…

"**_Look out_**!"

It was Percy who'd shouted, but it was Patrick who knocked Starling off his feet—one of which had just missed springing a trap that had been hidden by a covering of twigs and bark. A few of its menacing teeth gleamed white as the snow on the ground from its hiding spot beneath a bramble branch. Starling glared at it and rose to his feet slowly as if it might take a leap at him and do the job it might've done had the Pickwicks not been watching his step.

James swallowed the panic rising in his chest and followed along, ever more careful for the traps. He thought it might be a sound practice to take up a long stick and trigger the traps so as to have no problems with them later—but Starling was in a hurry, dashing to and from the cover of the biggest trees and glancing every which way for any sign of life. Were it not so dangerous a territory… James would have thought the process of sneaking and lurking quite the comedy.

"Mayhap it was an animal," he said hopefully.

"Don't wish on that," Patrick said sharply. "Were it an animal, most likely a bear!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Percy shot, "bears don't _bellow_, Patrick, less they've been trapped." Hope lightened his eyes. "Oh if only—a shot'd do it and we'd have ourselves a nice bear rug o' the floor."

"Bears—and animals—may bellow," said Jonathan, "but they haven't _voices to shout_ and a _shout_ is what we heard. Hush up the both of you, we're in the thick of the wood from whence it came and whomever's voice it was can't be far off!" His eyes narrowed and his voice went to whispers. "_We are not to be seen nor heard till we've set proper sights on the culprit, understand_?"

All three of them nodded, eager to get on with this particular hunt. Starling, pleased with this, resumed his sneaking. Left then right he looked and strode forward to lurk behind a thick, dead tree. Cautiously, he leaned to the side to peer through the bramble and brush. James made it to his side first and peeked out around the embellished elbow of Starling's coat. He heard the Pickwicks make haste to join them but didn't turn around for his eyes were fixed upon the scowling young man leaning against a tree. Even so many yards on it was easy to see who it was, for the prominent nose was not in the least diminished by distance.

"Knew it," Starling said. He cast a longing look at his rifle but in the end propped it against the tree and turned to face the rest of them—sending James back a step into Percy. The resultant kerfluffle seemed not to bother him as he moved in closer to confer with his companions. He glanced down at the moss showing through the snow and a gleam brightened his dark eyes. "I've a thought…"

Patrick groaned.

Later, when it was just James left at the tree to watch over a sod-covered and fuming Patrick, young Norrington felt he should have been as disheartened by that idea as the older Pickwick had been. If Starling's plan went off the scene would be worth the effort. But if it did not—James couldn't believe Percy had so enthusiastically insisted that the plan was worth the pains to pull off. Were he in his shoes he would not put his brother at such risk—not that Brian would ever have let himself be put in that position with James close by.

"See them yet?"

James peered out around the tree in the direction he was supposed to be watching and shook his head slightly. "Not yet."

"Well they best get on with it," Patrick grumbled, "or I'll _truly_ be a _bear_ when it is we're together again!"

"Whyever did you agree to it in the first place?"

Patrick frowned, then scowled and looked away. "Just you let me know when they give us the signal."

James shrugged. After a time he saw the glint of the compass that meant both Starling and Percy had met their destinations. James frowned and looked at the spot Percy was supposed to occupy. He could not see his friend amidst the branches and brush. There was no indication that anyone was near the spot until James squinted and saw that the dead wood was swaying just a bit more than dead wood should.

"Go on," James whispered to Patrick.

If the older Pickwick brother had any reservations for lowering himself to the sort of debasement Starling had cooked up for him, he made no show of them. There wasn't the least bit of shame on his face—or maybe it was that James couldn't see it through the mud that had been caked on—as he opened his mouth wide. A fantastic bellow befitting a well-injured bear issued from him.

"Well?" he hissed at James.

James, who'd not been able not to watch Patrick be made a fool, turned his attention hurriedly to the beak-nosed twit some ways away. Indeed, it was as had been expected—Charles the younger had taken up his rifle and snapped 'round to stare in their direction. James gasped and ducked back behind the tree, his heart pounding. He looked worriedly down at Patrick and nodded.

"Go on!"

It wasn't a man that lumbered out of hiding, but a bear. Starling had done such a job on Patrick—pressing dark moss into wet mud for the look of fur—that the stocky man did resemble a bear. Red hair had been slathered down with a good helping of mossy mud and James had to admit, as Patrick made forth on all fours, that the moss-tufted pinecone ears were a nice touch. As Patrick stopped to shake and grumble as any bear would, James looked ahead at the ass of their joke and wasn't surprised to see Charles moving slowly forward with his rifle at the ready.

"Come on," James murmured, glancing from VonCoch to the tree that would find him in range. "Closer, you coward… that's it." He held his breath as Charles took aim and then he let it out in a sharp whistle that pierced the air as the zing of an arrow punctured it. The feathered projectile took Charles' hat clean off his head and pinned it to the tree. Shock reigned on the beaky brat's face and then pure terror as Patrick-bear roared and rose up on hind legs. James couldn't help it—he laughed like the devil as Charles fell back on his bum and took off in the direction opposite Starling's hiding place. Patrick, though, was on his tail and forcing him to go the way they wanted him to go—right into a hard-flung snowball that smacked him hard in the nose.

Blood streaming down his face, Charles gave a shrill screech and ran for it. He tripped over a trap and screamed as its sharp teeth just barely missed his toes. Another snowball broke over the back of his hatless head.

"_Ghosts be gone_!"

It was something they were not expecting to see—Charles take a crucifix from his coat. The idiot swung the icon wildly around his head. There was a mad look on his face that doubled James over. Soon he felt Percy crouching beside him and the both of them wheezed with laughter.

"I'll not stand for such mockery, you dead wastrels," the boy spat. Though his words were hard, his voice was high and horrorstruck, his face a match for it. "_I know it's you, Norrington_!" He stalked around in a circle, glaring wildly at Patrick, who had taken it to be a smart thing to begin lumbering out of sight. "_Send all the bears you want_—**_it will not bring you ba_**—"

A ball of snow hurtled into his open mouth to cut him off and a mudball followed immediately, splatting upon Charles' highbrow. The twit dropped his crucifix to the ground. Though his face was uglied by anger James couldn't help his snort of laughter. Poor Percy had simply fallen to fits on the cold ground. There was the snapping of twigs and the slough of boots through leaves and then James saw Starling step out into plain sight and stroll amiably up to Charles with an apologetic look on his face that didn't match the darkness in his eyes.

"Oh Charles," he said, quite polite, "perhaps _the spirits_ are trying to tell you that you shouldn't be where you're not supposed to be—"

"You," spat Charles, "you have ruined ev—"

"_Easy_," said Jonathan over him, "as apparently it is to mistake a man for a bear—" he paused and nodded at Patrick who walked past as a man made up with mud toward the tree James and Percy rolled behind, "and as much as we'd all like _you_ to _be_ that mistake—"

"_Mistake_!" Charles was livid. He wheeled around wildly. "_The lot of you have made a most regrettable mistake. **Just you wait, Starling**—_"

"**_Keep away from what's rightly mine, you insolent little snot_**!"

A boot to Charles' rear sent him face-forward to the ground. He rose up cussing and whipped around to glare daggers at Jonathan Starling. If James had ever saw murder on the face of another, this, he guessed, was it. Starling's, he noted surprisedly, was not much different.

"Uh oh," Patrick breathed.

But, James saw, he wasn't worried about either Jonathan or Charles killing the other. What Patrick had undoubtedly saw was the figure of Charles the elder emerge from the trees beyond and begin stalking swiftly forward. There was a hideous sneer on his face as he reached the two young men staring so hard at each other. One look at his son's muddied face reddened his own and he poked Jonathan hard in the back with the nose of his rifle.

"Come on!"

James' jaw tensed as he made to obey Patrick Pickwick's terse order. He followed the muddied man out from behind the tree, glancing only once at a crestfallen Percy, and approached the scene laid before them cautiously. It did not bode well in his opinion.

Starling had gone rigid but the malice had not left his expression. "So it seems you're the master hunter, Hawk," he was saying in a strangely calm voice for having a gun aimed square on him. "But I think we both know you'd have too much to explain should you carry out what was undoubtedly your plan all along."

"My father hasn't planned a thing," Charles the younger sneered. "He's only caught you up at your own plot. A propitious coincidence for if he hadn't come to my aid who knows what you and these hooligans would have done!"

James felt a flash of anger and spoke before he could control himself. "I am not," he stated, "a hooligan."

But the VonCochs and Starling were paying him no heed. In fact it seemed that Jonathan was, of all things, amused. His dark eyes rolled back over his shoulder to the red-faced Hawk at his back. The corner of his lip lifted to reveal a flash of pearly whites.

"Progeny too proud to even consider his father would besmall what little dignity he has just to be rid of someone as meaningless as a lowly cartographer, in'nit he?"

At this, Hawk's face paled and his son's flushed bright with anger. Black eyes raged at those of his father. A growl gargled in his scrawny throat and he shook his fist.

"You set me up? For _him_!"

VonCoch's beady eyes were cold as he stared down unblinkingly at his furious son. "Don't be a fool, Charles. You are the heir's heir to the throne of England. Even at your worst you are better than these boys could ever hope to be."

"And you look best with mud in your face," Percy spat.

Hawk VonCoch's eyes narrowed so that James gasped. It was the direst fear. He stepped before his friend without giving a thought to the consequences. There was no way, he thought fiercely, that he would let a villain like VonCoch have at his friend's young life.

"Listen," Patrick Pickwick pleaded, "this is senseless, this fighting is. We're all men here of our own caliber and none of us of the lowest kind. It would do well to end this quarrel for the day." When it seemed his suggestion made no matter to either the VonCochs or Jonathan Starling, he hurried to say more. "Let us go on back to the lodge together and make ourselves merry by the fire and forget that this ever happened. What say you, gentlemen?"

Calling the VonCochs gentlemen, James thought, was absolutely absurd. However, he knew well that Patrick was trying his best to be the diplomat. If telling untruths would sway Hawk to abandon his malicious intentions and Starling, one of his compatriots, out of the line of fire—well, James decided he wouldn't press the issue.

Percy, however, was not about to let such come to pass.

"'Gentlemen'," he snorted. "Look more like vultures to me."

There was the loud click of the rifle's lock. James gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the report of gunfire. When it didn't come, he frowned and opened one eye to see Hawk had uncocked his gun and was holding it stiffly at his side. Jonathan Starling was stalking angrily past Patrick Pickwick and Charles was glaring at his retreating back. James turned 'round to look at Percy and found his friend's furious face turned up at his brother who was looking apologetically back at the both of them. He opened his mouth to say something but Percy grabbed James' arm and hurried them after Starling.

"He was only trying to help," James defended Percy's brother. "He did not want to see any of us shot, and neither did I."

"I _know_," Percy said grudgingly, "but _Starling_ has got the map out of the woods!"

"Oh," said James, "right."

But later, when they were all at the lodge, it turned out worse than James could have imagined. For it was that Hawk VonCoch had not been swayed by Patrick's dabble in diplomacy—he had only agreed to a stalemate until it was he had chance at suffering them a worser fate than death. As soon as he and Charles stalked into the lodge they demanded to speak at once with Onry Witter. A broad, dark figure loomed over the railing that looked down into the hearth-heated room until the two so-called gentlemen were by Wilhelm whisked out of sight and only then did Onry Witter step into the light and make his way slowly down the staircase.

James gulped, fearing the worst for himself and his companions. He could not imagine explaining to a man of such stature any reason for the petty—and dangerous—acts that the four of them had perpetuated. He could not imagine Onry Witter being sympathetic to their cause and yet when the man reached them there was sympathy in his eyes.

"Wait here, will you?"

It was all he said before striding purposefully in the direction Wilhelm had taken the VonCochs. James watched after him, his hope of staying on at Tirwitter fading fast. He caught the look of dread on Percy's face and mirrored it before stomping across the room to sink into a chair. He slumped forward, blowing irritatedly at the erstwhile lock of hair that tickled his nose.

"I don't want to go home," he grumbled.

"Were I you," came a sharp voice he wasn't expecting, "I'd not want to go home either."

James frowned and looked up. Finding no one before him, he turned left and right to find Alice Witter. When he did not see her, he began to question his sanity and leaned all the way forward so as to peer beneath the chair. A hand on his arm he was not expecting and leapt from the chair as if it had touched him itself.

Grey eyes laughed as Alice pranced to the other chair and sat herself in it. Being so small a girl, her feet did not quite touch the floor and she kicked them happily. "Scared of Uncle Onry?"

James' face flushed—though whether it was because of what she done or said he didn't know. "What do you mean by what you say?"

"Oh, don't be cross—lots of boys are scared of Un—"

"Not that," James cut in. "What you said before!"

"Oh," said Alice, and a positively sour look twisted her face. "Well you live so close to Admiral Sutton—and such a pleasant man he is that I imagine he must be as dear a neighbor."

"Oh," said James, feeling slightly deflated. He huffed and folded his arms over his chest. "And I'm not afraid of your Uncle, merely what sentence he prescribes us for our penitence."

"You've done something wrong? The four of you?"

James shrugged. He was not exactly sure what they had done was wrong—for it had felt quite right. "Just done something most would call daft."

Alice clucked her tongue. "Boys are such trouble."

"What do you know of boys?"

"What do you know of girls?"

"Shouldn't you be off practicing needlepoint or some other such nonsense?"

"Yes," agreed Percy's voice, "why are you here anyway?"

Alice shot a dirty look at him. She sat up straight in her chair, gripping the arms of it in her little hands. "I have not to answer to you, Percival Pickwick! This place is by name Witter and so it belongs to me as much as it does my Uncle. If anyone should ask why anyone is here, I should think it _my_ place to be asking _you_!"

"Only a girl would ask why a boy was taking shelter at a hunting lodge."

James couldn't help but snicker, for he felt that was quite true.

"Enough of that, you lot," Starling chided all three of them as he strode into proximity. "Your banter would send the sanest of men asway, it would! There's a more important matter at hand—"

"There is," said Patrick quietly. All turned to look at him but he was staring worriedly at his friend Jonathan. "Hawk VonCoch was set to kill you." Finally, he turned to stare warily into the fire. "Would've done—if we hadn't stepped foot forward to show our faces as witness… You'd be dead."

"Most likely," Starling shrugged. "But it didn't work out to his satisfaction, did it?"

"It is not a game," Patrick growled. He whipped around to glare at Jonathan and then turned disgustedly back to the flickering fire. "You know well as I if a man gets in their way he's done for—so why do you insist on putting yourself between those two and what they want?"

"If I hadn't, we'd never have got to hunt—"

"_I'm not talking about hunting_—"

"Then shut your mouth, Patrick," snapped Jonathan, "fore it betrays your ignorance to whatever matter you've concerned yourself with that likely does not concern you."

James watched the two of them. Patrick, who was usually the most even-tempered of any of them, was seething. His green eyes were narrow and his mouth set in a line. Jonathan Starling's coat was doing his snapping for him. The gent had not paused in his pacing, not even for the exchange that had turned his friend against him. He was not, the young cartographer, looking at anyone of them around him, and if James were to guess he'd suspect that instead Jonathan Starling was looking in on his own thoughts. There was a dullness in his eyes that suggested he was not seeing out, but in. James was sure that he himself looked that way on many an occasion…

"Do you mean to say that the Duke attempted to murder M—mister Starling?"

James shook himself from his thoughts as Jonathan did. The both of them looked surprisedly at Alice Witter—had she just stuttered? Pale as she was she was unusually paler and her grey eyes were wide with fear as she stared unflinchingly up at Starling who stared just as unflinchingly back.

"Yes," he said. "And young Charles who you seem to think so charming, dove, would've seen it done as well. Believe it or not, Miss Witter, your Hawkling has not fallen far from the nest his father built for him—as much a predator he is and he has blood on his hands right to the tip of his lofty little finger."

James and Percy exchanged glances, expecting the worst. They had before witnessed the trouble that was a girl confronted by the unconscionable truth—previously, Lillian Littleton being told in no uncertain terms that she had the face of a fish—and had come to dread the consequences of said confrontation. Most usually, they found, a girl would meet truth with tears and, worst of all, sniffles. Though Alice Witter had barely shown an ounce of emotion in the entire time of their acquaintance, James felt sure that an upset Alice Witter would be worse than he could bear to witness—and he felt sure, by just the look on his friend's face, that Percy felt much the same way.

Starling, as it was, did not seem to be thinking the same thing. In fact, Jonathan Starling was advancing on the girl struck dumb in the chair beside James. The gent's lip was curled in a snarl and his dark eyes spat fire into her icy gaze.

"I don't believe it!"

"Well you wouldn't," said Jonathan matter-of-factly. He stopped only when he was directly in front of her. "But it's none your fault, is it? The broader the mind, in more you believe—and it occurs to me, dove, that you have only the narrowest mind of a little girl."

A tiny sound that was too much like a sob not to be slipped from Alice's lips. James caught a glimpse of the tears sparkling in her eyes before she ducked her head and leapt to her feet. One heel stomped hard upon Starling's toe. Alice pushed past him and took up her skirts to dash up the steps. The pounding of her furious feet faded with the far-off slamming of what James guessed was her chamber door.

"That," breathed an awed Percy, "was not very nice."

Jonathan, who'd been cussing and hopping about on his unstomped foot, fell hard into the chair Alice had abandoned. He frowned heavily at the youngest Pickwick. James, for his part, wasn't sure what Starling disapproved of—he'd certainly not been complimentary to the girl by any means. Surely he did not think his treatment of Alice Witter was of any higher caliber than any foolery Percy had ever pulled?

"But necessary."

James scoffed, caring not that Starling looked around at him with the same stare. "Surely you don't think belittling the bird will have curried any favor?"

"No," said Jonathan, rolling his eyes. "But it did get her up the steps to the safe silence of her little cage, didn't it?"

James frowned. "What's the difference where she is?"

"She won't hear anything that will hurt her ears is what he's saying," Patrick offered from his place by the fire. He didn't move to join them, but he glanced over his shoulder before leaning heavily against the stone of the hearth. "Little girls shouldn't be made to hear the worst of what mucks up the minds of men…"

"But he told her—"

"About Little Lord VonCoch?" Starling met James' gaze and raised his brows. "It's better she knows sooner than later to stay her distance."

"Don't worry, James," Patrick said darkly. "Starling's got only her best interests at heart."

James would have asked what Patrick meant if Charles VonCoch did not storm angrily into view. His usually austere stride was out of order—he was not so much stalking as skulking. Hellfire blazed at Starling but Charles said nothing to any of them as he went to stand silently before the fire. Patrick, in his good sense, moved aside but did not comment. James was glad when the older Pickwick finally joined the rest of them by the chairs. He had been wondering if the man's voice of reason would speak louder than his loyalty to his less sensible companions. All doubts of this were not quieted, especially as the two older men who were supposed to be the best of friends glared at each other, but James felt just a bit better all the same.

Percy, who had been staring sullenly at the rigid stance of Charles VonCoch, had taken no comfort in his brother's presence, it seemed. Sulking, his shoulders drooped as he dug his toe in the bear rug. "Soon to be called upon and sent home, I suppose."

Indeed there was not a long time of silence between them before heavy steps sounded in the hall. James looked up to see Wilhelm Witter emerge from the shadows. Onry's brother made his way slowly towards them, the whole time frowning steadfastly at his feet. He did not address them immediately, first glancing towards the hearth where stood the son of the Duke and then taking a kerchief from his pocket to dab at his brow.

"Starling," he said. "See that you find the sense you must have previously been lacking and take yourselves to my brother's office where he awaits the four of you."

Jonathan lifted a finger and opened his mouth to respond but Wilhelm gave him no such opportunity. Lord Witter turned presently to approach the heir's heir to the throne and Jonathan Starling was left to frown at the hands folded behind the man's back. Patrick sighed and pulled Starling out of his chair with what small amount of patience he must have had left and motioned for him to lead the way. His next move was met with a slap—Percy promptly marched after Jonathan into the shadows. James frowned as he lugged himself out of his chair, knowing well what was waiting for them, but followed nonetheless for there were, in his estimation, no other options.

What they found as they neared the office was not what they'd expected. There were no shouts nor were there exclamations of their guilt. Realizing this, James lifted his head to take in their surroundings. He had never been the way they'd come before—through a dark hallway lined with suits of armor. Each bore a different brightly colored crest that he could not himself identify having left his studies when it was his family could no longer afford such frivolity. He guessed, though, that they were the crests of noble families and houses, for at the doorway where Jonathan Starling paused stood a suit of armor with the Witter coat of arms upon it. It was as Welsh as they with its doves entwined in white lilies—had Hawk VonCoch not been standing beside it sneering at them, James would have stopped to admire its elegant simplicity.

But Hawk VonCoch was standing beside it, and his beady eyes were colder than James remembered. He promptly looked away but it was too late—he'd already shivered. Feeling shamed for his cowardice, he faltered at the threshold and leapt forward only when the door snapped shut behind him.

Onry Witter had his back to them but he spoke before any of them drew upon the courage to address them. His voice was not tempered whatsoever. In fact, though he spoke loudly, he sounded quite calm.

"Tell me of this foolishness I have already heard too much about."

James looked to Patrick to answer but Starling spoke first. "Their foolishness, you mean, to cross the lines specifically drawn upon the map to mark our territory?" He paused, seeming to gather his wits, and then his expression hardened. "I won't mention the inarguable breach of the gentlemanly conduct they so claim to uphold—far be it from me to suggest that the VonCochs, men of such caliber, acted in any way unbecoming their station—but truly I must remark upon the sheer stupidity of wandering into the woods without so much as a word of warning to the men armed to hunt it."

"And be assured," said Onry quietly, "I have already condemned them that."

Jonathan's nostrils flared. "Have you?" It was no snarl, but a growl that widened James' eyes. "And was it a sharp slap of the wrist you gave to the man whose murderous plot was this time foiled?"

"Now, what's this?"

But there was no time for any of them to clamor up their version of the events that unfolded, for the door swung open immediately and the murderous man stormed into the room, that sent James knocking into Percy who stumbled into Patrick whose foot came down hard on Jonathan's already injured toes. The gent gave a cry of alarm. He fixed an accusatory glare not on his friend but upon the Duke whose sinister mouth was drawn back in a snarling rage.

"_I demand explanations_!"

"Sit, boys. And settle yourself VonCoch," suggested Onry Witter, "before it is you _strain_ something." With that the Great Goat turned from the window that overlooked the gamesland. There was upon his face as much irritation as showed upon the countenance of his counterpart. He looked shrewdly between the two adversaries and raised his brows. "I'll not tolerate hotheads here any more than I would upon my ship."

"Ships," countered Jonathan, but he took a seat all the same and motioned for the three of them still standing to do the same.

Witter's glare switched to him but turned quickly to a terse nod. "Aye, ships."

"This insolent whelp deserves not the recognition of a man of your greatness, Witter—"

"_Sir_," Onry groused, "Sir Witter!"

A flash of a sneer crossed VonCoch's face but he nodded besides. "Of course. It is my case in point, _Sir_—you are a man knighted by His Majesty and yet this little lout shows to you none the courtesy for it! Far be it from me, the lowly cousin to the King, to expect the respect a man of your caliber deserves—but should I be so wrong as to mark offense at this lout's disregard of those in my company?"

Witter chose the wrong moment to glance beyond caustic VonCoch at Starling—who was, at that time, completely immersed in impersonation of the blueblood. Adverse to how the adage goes, however, there was no flattery in the imitation. With nose too high in the air and sneer too snide upon his face, Starling's imitation was more a mimicking mock of VonCoch. To his credit, Jonathan caught Witter's glance and effected an apologetic expression in response. Witter raised a brow and folded his arms as he turned back to the man whose sharp tone had turned to a pitiful whimper.

"Is it so wrong," VonCoch continued, "to wish for the safety of my son?"

At this, Witter rolled his eyes. "It was a bit of mud, Charles, not a bloody bullet."

At that, VonCoch's face reddened. "But just as damaging!"

"Well," scoffed the Great Goat, "I doubt that, man. Afterall, what with the many sterling qualities your son possesses to polish his pride… I can hardly imagine this incident dealing even a dent to his shining armour."

Even VonCoch realized he could not argue that. Instead, he adjusted the shoulders of his coat and hmmphed out of the room, shooting Jonathan a murderous glare as he went. Both Starling and Witter stared after him with some measure of amusement.

Onry sobered suddenly and turned to his companion. "Wouldn't venture far were I you." He arched a brow. "Muskets in hands of men like that _do_ make the occasional mistake, afterall."

* * *

_**Author's Babble: **Long time, no update. Sorry! But it's at least a lengthy update... that has to count for something, eh? _Lykosdracos_, I'm surprised at you! Jack Sparrow's namehas not even been mentioned in this fic! ;) I don't think James will fall for Alice Witter anytime soon and it's not exactly the alcohol that is turning James' stomach at that point. But thank you very much for your commentary- I enjoy it. Privateer, indeed! _Windsbride_, you're most welcome. I'm just glad someone's reading it really--and ever more happy to hear that I've painted James so well for you. Thank you for your review! I hope you continue to enjoy the tale. _


	6. Strong Strategies

**M**atters did not much improve by the next day. Determined not to let the events that had transpired belay their hunting, Jonathan Starling woke the boys early as ever. The four of them went about the same routine only to be thwarted by Wilhelm Witter who wore a most disapproving look upon his unfriendly face. In his hand rolled open a marked map at which Starling, and the rest of them, stared in disbelief.

"Not a person besides those in present company could possibly be up at this hour!"

It was so, for not even the gamesmen were up about their business. One of them lay under a heap of green coat whistling away in his sleep. Not snoring as the other two was he. The shrill sound seemed to pierce Old Tom's musings in sleep. With each whistle did the whiskers on the groundskeeper's chin shudder, his slack jaw twitching with muttering that James could not quite hear. Shaking himself from staring so rudely, James turned around in time to catch the glower upon Wilhelm Witter's face.

"Do not insult your own intelligence," he groused. "Did you not foresee the Duke's finding fault enough with the events having previously transpired to demand a change of gameplan that would set his advantage regardless of the hour he wakes?"

"A preemptive strike," Starling growled.

"Of course!"

"Let me guess," Jonathan snarled, standing tall on his heels to stare up at Lord Witter, "it was you approved it last eve?" His voice rose in volume with every spitted word. "You, who bent to that beaky bastard's will—because certainly your brother would not budge. Onry Witter would sooner bow to The Devil Himself—"

"No," groused a gruff voice, "he would not."

Icicles crept under James' skin at the harsh sound of the voice that had spoken. He turned. Trudging into the room was Onry Witter, but he was not the same gracious host they'd been welcomed by. A grumpy look he wore and James felt immediately guilty when greeted by it. Unable to meet the stony gaze, he looked to his feet.

"It was my decision to meet the Duke's demands last eve. Mine alone. Do not," he growled, "place blame upon my brother. Wilhelm has become scapegoat enough simply to keep good our name with the straightbacks. He does not deserve to be blamed for mine own actions—actions which I refuse to defend to anyone might question them!" There was an abrupt silence and then the Great Goat spoke again in a low voice that raised goosepimples on James' skin. "And do not again dare to speak the name you have. I'll not hear of that beast!"

"Beast?"

It was perhaps the worst of times for Hawk VonCoch to show up. The villain strode in, resplendent in a fur-lined hunting coat that was only to be outdone by his following son's foxfur cloak, a sneer already curling his lip. He stared down his nose at James as he passed and sniffed at Starling's snarl.

"Ah, Starling," he acknowledged with a smile. "Perhaps the beast you will not hunt this day? Pity, as we all know how much you seem to enjoy the hunt. Ironic, isn't it, that you act much less civilized than the animals you prey upon? But beastly as you are, I wouldn't expect dear Sir Witter to have referred to you as such…"

"Oh no," sniped Starling, "you're right on that account, Charles. Tell me though, knowing your own son's demeanor… are you not the least bit suspicious that he may be the very beast Captain Witter was referring to?"

"Enough," spat Onry. "Both of you must stop this for I tire of it and I will not have it in my household! Starling, you will not speak in such a manner and Charles our conversation is none your concern! As far as the hunt goes—it is only a pity that _neither_ of you shall be hunting the grounds on this day. No, Charles," he said, seeing Hawk VonCoch's lips sputter to protest, "if none of you have the sense to act as men, none of you shall be taking part in the sport of men."

James watched, wide-eyed, as the Great Goat ripped the map from Wilhelm's hand and rent it down the middle. He tossed the halves in the air and turned his back on them all. His heavy stomping from the room interrupted the shrill whistle of the sleeping groundsman. When the door slammed shut behind Onry Witter, a sharp snort sat the startled groundsman up on his cot. Lewis blinked blearily at them, not seeming to notice that the coat that had covered him now hung upon the bridge of his long nose.

"A fine start to the day."

James wanted to laugh despite the situation they found themselves in. The stern look from Wilhelm Witter, however, held his tongue. He found himself shooed from the room with the rest of them, he and Percy stealing suspicious looks behind at the VonCochs who followed.

"Does this mean we've got to spend the entirety of the day in their company?"

"What?" Percy darkened at the prospect. "Not if I can help it. I may well sit the day in the room."

"I think not," said Starling, glancing over his shoulder. "You will take the same punishment we have all got to take, young Percival."

It was so. They had endured three silent and strained mealtimes with all of the people of the lodge present—even the groundsmen, James noticed—before Onry Witter cleared his plate and then his throat to break the silence. All looked to him, rising from his seat at the head of the table, expectantly. James looked up from his nearly untouched plate—of what he'd been told was rabbit—with some strange sense of hope to the man who had the ability to raise spirits in the bleak wake of the day.

"An announcement," he addressed the table. "On the morrow it will not be necessary for early risings. There shall be no expectations on the parts of many of you, for I have decided that this day to proceed after the eve shall be mine and mine alone to hunt Tirwitter with company of my choosing…"

Alice Witter, who'd been nothing short of a study during the mealtimes, stirred in her seat beside James. He cast his eyes toward her and was surprised to find a most pleased smile upon her usually pouting visage. Perhaps it was the pudding placed before her, the fine custard drizzled with a fair bit of syrup, but for some reason James felt that that was not so and it alarmed him to think on what the unpleasant girl could possibly be happy about. He caught Percy's narrow eye and followed it to an almost gleeful Charles VonCoch, then on to his smirking father.

"I shall send note to those of you with whom I wish to spend my day," said the Great Goat, rising from his place with his plate of pudding in hand. "Plenty of thanks for those of you who have supped with me and mine—do enjoy the custard in my absence."

James watched his abrupt departure with a bit of disappointment. He'd thought well that Onry Witter would restore some of his confidence in them after a nearly civil day, but it had perhaps not been enough to convince the man of their contrition. In truth James was not at all sorry about what had transpired, certainly not humiliating Charles VonCoch, but he was sorry it had displeased the master of the manor. As plates were cleared away he made his proper exits as he'd once been taught and followed Percy at a clip up the stairs.

"A wasted day," he opined to his friend.

"And that's the truth!"

And it was ever more disheartening when no note was sent to any of the four of them that eve. They went to sleep in silence, Starling not even so much as snoring that night. James found he could not sleep well wondering just how much they'd disappointed Onry Witter, he could not sleep well wondering how much they'd let him down, and he could not stop himself from thinking then on his brother who, despite all his mischief, would have been just as dismayed by his behavior—were he still breathing to speak such concerns.

Brian would likely have been ashamed to have such a nasty little boy for a brother, James thought sadly. He turned over onto his side and stared blankly at the wall until it turned into the scene from the previous day—grey light of winter's day and Charles VonCoch's terror stark against the dead wood of Tirwitter, a Crucifix trembling wildly in his hand…

_Ghosts be gone!_

_I know it's you, Norrington!_

James closed his eyes as if to shut out Charles' words ringing in his ears. It was not a successful attempt, however. He rolled over onto his other side but the scene was still flashing before his eyes. The screams were still slicing through him, streaming together as James felt his chest tighten in the way it would so often do.

_Ghosts be gone! I know it's you, Norrington!_

_I know it's your ghost, Norrington, be gone!_

James felt he could not breathe, not with the screams splitting his head. He jerked up off his pillow to no avail. All the corners of the scene laid before him began to fade to black…

_Be gone, Norrington… it will not bring you back…_

When James woke gasping for air, he found he was alone. It was to his relief, for he did not want his frailty to be of concern to them of his compatriots. It was singularly bad enough to be the one with the tragic past of family. He could not imagine the difficulty in washing their faces of pity were he also known to be the one with the tragic shortness of breath. He could not imagine how he would ever save face short of breath before their eyes…

He blinked, seeing the note that had been tacked to the bedpost. Wasting no time thinking on his weakness any longer, James reached for and ripped the parchment down. He opened it and found, to his dismay, Starling's scrawl of hand.

_Jamesy,_ it said, _stay abed. _

James followed the blank space with wary eyes to the ink scribbled across the bottom.

_Do not worry on it for I do believe the brothers Pickwick could sleep through a Navy blast._

Scowling for being so known by someone he knew so barely, James crumpled the note in his palm and threw it into the fireplace. It landed amongst the ashes as he fell backwards onto his pillow. He wondered just what Starling had done to ease the fit he must've had. More importantly, he wondered just what Starling had said to the Pickwicks—if not for the truth of the matter—to convince them that he, James, would be better for the day staying abed.

Likely it was something ridiculous that made him seem a worser fool than frailty would, he worried, sitting up again. Starling had the believability of a layman, but he had the sense of a loon. It was difficult to take the advice of that man, whatever his intentions were. James was beginning to fret for whatever good was left to his name when the door swung open to admit a humming Jonathan Starling into the room.

"Oh. Well then," he said, glancing at the tray he carried, "suppose I'm right on time, eh?"

"What have you told them?"

It was perhaps not the most grateful response James had ever mustered in his life, but he felt he had little other way to respond to the fears he now faced thanks to the buffoon standing before him. Still, when Starling's shoulders drooped and his cocoa-brown eyes widened as if he'd been struck across the face, James felt that familiar pang of guilt permeate his resolve. He sighed inwardly but held strong to his resentment.

"Only," Starling said, his bright mood picking up as if he'd not been sidetracked at all, "that I was waked upon your return from a late-night adventure." He nudged the door shut and crossed the space to set the tray down upon James' bed. "Apparently, you found it necessary to breach curfew and defy the convention that is 'lights out'."

James frowned, finding no fault in what story Jonathan had concocted. He eyed the lunch tray suspiciously as he'd like to eye Starling, noting its generous helping of chowder and fruit slaw. When he decided that he was acting much too unappreciative for all of this unrequested consideration, James sighed wearily.

"Thank you," he said without looking up.

"No need. I feel it's much my fault the predicament we're in, see? I owe the lot of you."

"Don't be daft," James told him, taking up his spoon. "All us had a part in it."

There was quiet for a moment and then Jonathan snorted. "Suppose you're right. But was it as worthy to the lot of you as it was worth to me, I wonder?"

"Do you jest?" James looked up at Starling, unable to keep the quirk from his mouth. "Charles VonCoch gone raving? To witness that's worth just about anything." Remembering, though, his thoughts from the previous eve, James sobered a bit. "Though perhaps it was ungentlemanly to be as mean in spirit as he."

Starling shrugged. "Eat," he said, going to the door. He paused there, raising a brow at James. "Shall I inform the others that you are yet recovering from your… exploits?"

"No," James decided, the good food giving him a burst of energy. "I will be along for company soon as I've finished."

He was, without delay. Percy seemed quite happy to see him when he made his way into the parlor he'd been told they'd taken presence in. It was somewhat strange to see Charles VonCoch sitting upon the settee, even if his lip did curl as if he'd tasted something sour upon sight of James.

"Norrington," he spat.

"VonCoch."

"That's Lord VonCoch to you!"

James stared hard at the boy who was older than him, wanting very badly to slap him soundly across the face. He did not give in to such crude desires, however, and simply gave a polite nod. "_Lord _VonCoch, good afternoon."

Charles nodded, apparently appeased. "Good day."

Taking this to be dismissal, James stepped quickly around him to meet Percy at the thick table between the tall bookcases. He matched his friend's look of dismay but the gameboard set upon the tabletop caught his interest.

"Chess," said Percy. "Fancy a game?"

James' fingers twitched.

Chess games had been all but tradition in his family. He remembered in detail each painted figure of his father's father's grandfather's chess set, remembered how his father had once told Brian that their great-grandfather had taught him the rules and strategies of the game—rules and strategies he'd wanted to pass on to his sons. Brian had taken to it but faltered quickly within the bounds of gameplay, his strategies running too much into the rules. James, however, had always enjoyed finding his strategy within the strictions. And he was sure, Percy being so natural a hunter, that the challenge would be worth the toil.

A few hours later found them surrounded by an audience of their friends, foes, and otherpersons unhunting at Tirwitter. Even Lewis, who had taken high offense at their antics having been the cause of his waking up in so unrefined a manner the day previous, had cast a curious eye upon their game from the confines of his wingchair by the hearth. James let his concentration wander; by his count he was three steps ahead of Percy. He was about to reach for his bishop when he realized, with a start, that it was not there.

A look at the board found that Percy had knocked aside that chess piece and two others, effectively trapping James' white Queen between two pawns and a bishop. Irritation wrinkled James' brow as he was forced to switch tack mid-strategy. It was something he was not accustomed to doing, always being a step ahead of whomever he played, and the idea that he might lose face before all those gathered to watch weighed heavy on his shoulders.

"Do you concede?"

James shot a dirty look Charles' way but spared him no response. There were many things he would do: work steps behind to appear to have not a grasp of the board, let his opponent take a pawn that would better serve him gone from play, and even sacrifice his Queen for the good of the game. But he would not, could not concede.

"What sort of man concedes?"

James imagined that Charles' response to Starling's dubious question was something of a sneer but he did not look up from the game this time. Instead, he tried to remember having watched his brother play through the move that Percy had forced on his pieces. Brian had always had a knack for getting out of the damnedest of scrapes...

_...a white knight, taken..._

James frowned at his knight.

_...and the black castle moves forward eagerly, not thinking on its keeping the white Queen from advancement..._

He looked at the board, giving no more attention to Percy's castle than he did any other piece in play. Chewing hard on his lip, he reached deftly for his knight and moved it ahead. If he'd baited Percy well enough...

Percy let out a snort and took the knight with his castle. "Just handing it to me?"

James hid a smile and took his Queen out of her garrison, much to the delight of most of the assemblage. "No."

Percy grinned and took a pawn. "Good."

The game went on for a time, Starling and Charles trading barbs here and there while Percy and James did battle. Finally, as Percy's attention was caught up in arguing with Alice Witter about his latest move, James moved in for the kill. He approached Percy's King.

"Checkmate."

"May I play winner?"

James looked up from his winning game to meet the questioning grey gaze of the girl that Percy had been telling off. He glanced down at the board and lamented the length of such a game. Strategy sometimes led into years of planning and play.

"May I appoint a worthy substitute?"

Alice pursed her lips as if she'd tasted something slightly sour. It took her a moment to take in the room's occupants and as her gaze flickered over Starling, James made his decision. He waited for her answer.

"Yes," she conceded tartly, "I do suppose that would be acceptable."

James sat back from the chessboard and raised his face to Starling. "Your turn."

"Why Jamesy, I'm honored."

"_Wasn't really my choosing_," James murmured as he pushed back the chair to stand up. Noting the sudden flush of the girl's pallor and remembering just how it was she displayed her displeasure, he made haste to duck behind Starling as the young gent sat himself at the table. To Percy, who had somehow fought what James guessed was a dire urge to refuse to give up his seat to the girl and who was now frowning disconcertedly at the hatred etched into the lines of Charles VonCoch's haughty face, he shrugged.

"Whoever taught a chit to play chess?"

Alice, who'd been watching the swift movement of Starling's hands as he set up the pieces, looked up at the gent with a steely glare. "My uncle, my father, your father... and the King."

"Oh," said Starling, fingers fumbling over the black bishop, "good."

Alice righted the piece and set to straightening all those that he'd given to her–she was to be white. "Yes and I have on good authority that you are quite a novel strategist Mister Starling. Perhaps I will have to remark on that to your father once it is I've called my game."

Starling sat up a bit straighter and laid his palms flat upon the table. "I think I misheard you, dove... this is to be my game, I'm sure."

"We shall see about that!"

But James, who'd caught the eye of his friend, would likely not see. Percy was nodding him towards the door and James, with a quick glance about, met him there. They slipped out into the hall, James shutting the door behind him without a sound.

"Being hemmed in is tiring," said Percy. "Let's go on and visit the stables..."

James nodded his assent and they made their way quickly through the lodge and out onto the land that was not considered the hunting grounds. Around a small pond they went, an awkward silence having settled between them, and down a pebble path that ended between two evergreens. James frowned as they found themselves approaching the wide expanse that was the pasture for the Tirwitter stablery.

"Percy..."

But though James began, he realized he did not know how he wanted to finish. He was not even sure what he wanted to ask. Something was not right, but he could not put his finger upon it...

"James?"

"What do you think that was about in the woods?"

Percy paused in stride. "What what was?"

"Charles," James said, stringing things together, "crying out my family name."

"Oh," Percy said dully. He kicked at a pebble. "Don't rightly know."

"Why would any of we Norringtons haunt him?"

"Nasty piece that rat is, any ghost would want to haunt him." Percy stopped suddenly and pointed ahead. "Look, they've got some pretty ponies!"

James laughed despite himself and followed his friend toward the fence. It was nothing to crawl through it, the slats being wide enough for small boys to crouch between them. So quickly they did this that they did not think much on it. If they had, they might have considered that at least one of the horses would take offense at their intrusion and charge wildly toward them.

One did. Hooves pounded the hard ground. James looked up and froze against the fence, staring up at the muzzle of the grey stallion headed straight for them. It was nearly upon them when a voice boomed from the stables.

"_**Angswetch!** Halt!"_

A sharp whistle pierced the air and Angswetch the grey slowed down to a trot that turned into an amble as he approached the boys. Great dark nostrils sniffed James' hair and then the horse turned, nuzzling his cheek. James smiled and reached up with Percy to pet the animal's muzzle. It huffed in appreciation and turned away with a swish of tail to munch on the sparse grass sticking up through the frost.

"Uh oh," Percy said, "it's the Great Goat."

Indeed it was Onry Witter stomping across the crunchy ground towards them. His great cloak swirled out around him in the wind, his golden hair doing much the same. There was no expression to be seen on his face and so James' stomach sank, not knowing if they were in for it or not.

"Boys," his gruff voice met them before he did, "you should not invite yourself to a stallion's stomping grounds without permission." He stopped before them, his blue eyes switching between them for a moment. "Things boring you at the lodge?"

James glanced at Percy before realizing, with a start, that he was the one Onry had posed the question to. "Y–yes sir," he stammered, cursing himself for it. "Quite so."

"We thought," said Percy, "since it's not technically hunting grounds, that the stables would prove a worthy diversion. Sir," he added.

"You did, did you?" The Great Goat's gaze again switched between them. "Like horses, the both of you?"

"Oh yes," said James.

"Enormously!"

It was a relief to James that Onry Witter brightened. His expression warmed and his mouth turned up in a smile. It seemed even his bow-tie showed his disposition, bobbing merrily in the breeze at the end of his braided beard.

"Well then," he said brightly, "let us go on to the stables to meet the horses!" He turned his head to acknowledge the horse they'd encountered already. "You've met Angswetch. A hothead of a horse–which is why you must always have his permission to enter his stomping grounds."

James and Percy said nothing, following the Great Goat across the distance to the stables. The doors were thrown wide open, one stable boy standing idly by with a mug of something hot in his hand. James recognized the smell as mead and, to his embarrassment, his stomach growled quite loudly.

"Hungry?"

"Getting to be," James admitted quietly. He had eaten a decent lunch thanks be to Starling, but it had been hours since. "Think I may eat too much."

"Nonsense," said Onry, reaching into a barrel to take out an armful of shiny red apples. "Growing boys need nourishment." He handed one each off to James and Percy and then quirked his lip at them as he shuffled the remaining apples in his arms. "Treats for our friends."

One by one he took them to all the stalls, introducing them to all of the horses. There were three other stallions, one the color of Angswetch and two of a rich chestnut brown, two grey mares, and one small pony whose name was...

"Goo int!"

"No no," said Onry with a smile. "_Gwynt_."

"That's what I said," Percy insisted.

Gwynt grunted and accepted the apple Onry offered with a snort in Percy's general direction. James laughed at the put out expression upon his friend's face. He watched Gwynt chew on his treat and then looked up at Onry Witter wonderingly.

"What's on your mind, young Norrington?"

"Why aren't you hunting, sir? I mean," he added hastily, "if you don't mind my asking..."

"Ah, well..." sighed Onry, petting Gwynt between the ears, "I haven't the heart for it this day." His face darkened. "Too much sodding nonsense for me liking."

James perked up. He wondered if Percy had noticed that the Great Goat had seemingly lapsed into his saltier tongue. A glance aside found the same sparkle in Percy's eye that James imagined in his own.

"That'll be Starling's doing I think," Percy offered.

The Great Goat and his cloak huffed with annoyance. Blue eyes rolled heavenward and a golden mustache twisted over a taut mouth. "Aye but leastways there's reason in his nonsense..."

"It's them ruddy VonCochs then," Percy decided.

"Bothersome buggers they are," Onry Witter agreed. He frowned. "But the cousin to the King and all that rot... think they're entitled to do whatever it takes to get whatever they want." He shook his head as if to clear it. "No, I don't blame Jonathan one ruddy bit." Percy, looking perplexed, had nothing to add this time, a matter which drew Onry's attention. The Great Goat flashed a cheeky grin. "Me niece'll be better off in his hands than that snootytoot's talons!"

"What!"

But something clicked into place for James at that moment. He understood, now, why Wilhelm had joined them in hunting and why it was he had seemed to give Starling such a difficult time. It was not that he favored the VonCochs–it was simply his stern approach to the man who was to wed his daughter!

"That's what that was about then," he murmured, feeling his face heat up under the questioning gaze of both his friend and their host. He took a bite of his apple and chewed carefully so as to fill the space of time but they did not speak and so he sighed to himself and endeavored to explain himself. "All that formality with the mapmaking and whatnot, the day Starling said you'd come up with a sneakiest plan..."

"Right you are, young Norrington," said Onry Witter, sounding impressed. "A fine guess you made. You would be correct. However I must insist the both of you boys do not make mention of this to any one person. Wilhelm does not wish to put his daughter in peril..."

"You think the VonCochs'd stoop as low?"

James looked up at Percy then, for his friend sounded truly alarmed. He, James, found he was surprised at himself–why was it that he sensed as much danger to do with the VonCochs as the Witters seemed to? He looked up to Onry for the answer. There was in the man's blue eyes a depth of concern that caught James' breath.

"I know them to."

Dark silence would have descended upon them were it not for the interruption in the form of Lewis come, coat snapping, into the stables. A message for Captain Witter from the kitchens he had and gave it to his Lord. James turned to toss his apple core in the rubbish heap, a painful gnawing in his stomach. He'd been hungry but now, for some such reason, he didn't think he could stomach much of a meal.

Nonetheless, he, with Percy, followed Onry Witter back to the lodge wherein he told them both to wash up for dinner. It would be a fancy sort this night, James gathered, and he worried that he hadn't fancy enough fare for the occasion. When Percy mentioned he'd brought double the suiting, he was not sure if he was relieved or the littlest bit insulted. Either way he looked well enough in his friend's favors. He could not help but gander at himself in the looking glass for a time. He could not help but wonder if he looked anything like his brother had when Brian had been his age...

It wasn't long that he had to dwell on the matter though. Patrick collected them both soon enough and then they sat the dinner with as many manners as they could manage. It was a dressed up affair and so called for it but James would much have preferred the hearty, half-heartedly happy meals that Onry Witter himself seemed to favor. He was therefore not at all put out by a call for an early rest and even found himself eagerly taking the steps to the bedchamber in the hopes of sleep.

Sleep was quick and on the morn James found himself being waked by someone else. This time the face hovering over his was that of a stranger. James jerked up, both he and the stranger giving yelps of surprise.

"Who are you!"

"The one sent to wake ye, lad," was the response. "And I see I done the job."

"But why," asked James, "are you waking me?"

The stranger, who was a short and stocky sort with kind eyes, shrugged. "Don't rightly know the answer to that other than to tell ye I was told to."

James frowned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. When he'd finished he noticed that the man he was looking up at had the most impressive sideburns he'd ever seen. He tried hard not to let them, in all their grizzly glory, distract him from what it was he wanted to know. "By whom?"

"Cap'n, that's who," was the gruff reply. The stranger's eyes narrowed on him for an unsettling moment and then he shrugged again. "Get yerself 'round, lad. Cap'n Witter's asked for your help in hunting here today." He stood up straight and turned to go but his muttered words carried back to James as he went. "_God's glory but he's every bit his brother's brother..._"

A Navyman then, James thought glumly. He rose from his bed and saw that Percy had already been waked. More than likely the young Pickwick had taken off at a clip when asked to hunt the place with their host. When James did make it to the store room, the Great Goat and Percy were being strapped with munitions. Percy was beaming.

"A bow and a rifle, James!"

"Young Mister Pickwick assures me he's instructed on their proper use," Onry Witter said to James. "But what would be your weapon of choice, young Norrington?"

James let his gaze wander along the stores of weaponry. There were things he'd never seen before–spiked, heavy iron globes attached to chains and thick grips; sharp-ended iron spikes, and two small canisters that James suspected were some small-form canon. He glanced over the bows, the arrows, and the rifles to the rack of firearms which from their barrels stuck the air with a long metal blade.

"A musket, if you please sir."

"Of course, of course," Onry said, waving at the groundsmen. "Should have known you'd favor that–a fine choice as well as that of your brother..."

James did not know what to say to that and so he said nothing as one of the groundsmen sized up the span of his arms. The other groundsman set to strapping a baldric over his shoulder. A fine musket, all glossy walnut embellished with silver, was then placed in the crook of his arm, and a pack of ammunition in the pouch the baldric set at his hip.

"Thank you," he said.

"Anything else?"

James considered Onry's question. There were so many weapons to choose from that he felt a bit overwhelmed by the prospect. He shook his head.

"I've my knife in my pack, sir. I think that should suffice."

"Very well, then let's be off lads. Gibbs, if you will?"

The stout man that had waked James staggered between them, his arms laden with munitions. He and one of the groundsmen took care to strap these all to Onry Witter's person. James and Percy watched, awed that someone would attempt to carry so much weight at once. There was a long sword, a short sword, and a blade that reminded James of the scythes used to harvest hay. Two pistols slid into the holsters on each of the Great Goat's hips. A longshot rifle was added to his left. A bow and arrows were strapped to his back and then a musket was placed firmly in his hand by Gibbs.

"That it then, sir?"

Onry Witter frowned down at himself, apparently taking stock of his stashed weaponry. He patted at each of the weapons in succession. His lip twitched with irritation.

"You've forgot the flail," he told Gibbs and shortly after he was armed with a formidable set of spiked iron globes chained together. Noticing James' shudder of revulsion, his mustache curled up at the corner. "Only for defense should we need it."

"Still blood reviled, are you?" Percy sounded as disgusted as James was at the prospect of slaughter. "It's _hunting_ James!"

James shot him a dirty look as the two of them started after Onry Witter into the woods. It seemed that they would not be alone with the Great Goat, for a glance back found Gibbs and another similarly dressed man following after. They were both Navymen, James decided. He remembered, then, that Onry Witter was not only a wealthy landowner and Governor of Jamaica, but also a privateer.

"Sir?" He guessed by the incline of the man's head that he had been acknowledged and wondered for a moment how best to put the question. "Starling suggested there's not much difference between a privateer and a pirate..."

"Did he?" Onry's brows rose but he gave no indication of what he thought of the statement. "And what do you think, James?"

"I'm not sure exactly, sir."

"What makes the difference, then?"

"I'm not exactly sure, sir."

"I'll tell ye," offered up Gibbs. "The difference 'tween a pirate a privateer's in the papers." At the sound of disgust on the other Navyman's tongue, he shrugged. "The only thing's different to me anyway..." He leered at James and waggled his brows. "Both string men up by their ears and sink their ships."

Onry Witter chuckled at James' look of horror. "Don't let Mister Gibbs get to you. He's a way with words."

"I should say," the other Navyman sniffed. His face twisted in disgust and then he looked down at James through serious blue eyes. "The difference is in Honour. A privateer is granted that Honour and a pirate... has none."

"Now I don't know about that, Nettley," said Onry, to his Navyman's surprise. He smirked. "Bartholomew Roberts is much an honourable gentleman despite his occupation."

James frowned. "I heard he's a ruthless, cold-blooded killer."

"He is," Nettley said. "Don't listen to the Goat!"

"I did not hear a goat just now," Onry teased his comrade. "Perhaps it is Nettley one shouldn't listen to, for he is hearing things that we are not."

Percy laughed with Gibbs and the Great Goat but James was preoccupied by the strange bend the conversation had taken. Was Onry Witter suggesting that there was not a difference between pirates and privateers as Starling had? How did that make him, then, any better than the scoundrels who'd lost James his family...

"Look here, James," said Onry Witter. When satisfied he'd James' attention, he smiled kindly down at him. "It is difficult to tell between pirates and privateers and even more so to decide who has got the Honour Nettley speaks of and who has not. As for me, I am no villain–and that is all you need know."

James offered a half-hearted smile in return. "Very well, sir."

"Don't worry on it, lad," Gibbs suggested. "It'll only serve to make your head spin."

Nettley muttered something about drawing lines that James could not quite hear but he decided to take Gibbs' advice and not dwell on it–for the time being. He looked at Onry wonderingly nonetheless. "Sir?"

"Aye?"

"Whatever should we need a flail for?"

"Oh," said the Great Goat, patting his cloak fondly. "Well, Patrick Pickwick is not the only bear roaming Tirwitter..."

Several quail, two pheasants, and a few foxes later, James stopped with his hunting troupe to sit quietly by an icy stream. He was a bit tired. Onry Witter did not dawdle much as Starling did. They had covered much ground in a timespan of but a few hours.

"You ever going to shoot anything?"

James looked up at Percy, who had been the downfall of two of the foxes, and was a bit ruffled to see some sense of disgust in his friend's eyes. He shrugged helplessly. "I have yet to see a proper turkey for my family's table..."

"There's so much to prey on," Percy told him. His brow wrinkled. "Why must it be a turkey?"

"Because," James said, losing some of his patience, "that is what I was told to hunt!"

"Not today!"

"It was my aim!"

"What aim? You've not aimed at a thing!"

"I only wish to bring home what is expected of me and nothing more!"

"What sense does that make? There's much to be hunted and your family of all could use the meat!"

James opened his mouth to speak but found he hadn't the words. There was a hollow hurt in his chest. Percy had effectively wounded him. He turned away from the boy that was supposed to be his friend and blinked at the furious tears that had burned his eyelids.

At some point in time, Percy had walked away from him. He hadn't noticed until he realized he heard his voice and Onry's shouting with laughter in the distance at some story Gibbs was telling. He stood, slowly, and brushed the dirt from his behind. When he turned to make his way over to them, he walked straight into Nettley.

"He did not mean it the way that you think he meant it, mind."

James bristled. "I know."

"Do you?" Nettley raised a brow. "Well in that case I suppose I don't have to tell you not to worry on it?"

"No," agreed James, "you don't have to tell me anything."

Nettley did not look convinced but fell silently into step with James nonetheless. The two made it quickly to the others and found that they were on to planning their next jaunt. It would be, James picked up, to trap a wolf.

"And I think," said Onry, "I would like your help this time, James."

James looked at Percy when no snide remark was made and found that his friend was looking steadfastly in the other direction. A surge of anger lifted James onto the tips of his toes. He let himself fall heavily on his heels and looked determinedly up at the Great Goat.

"You'll have it, sir."

"Good! Let's track, then..."

Tracking, James discovered, was much more to his liking than any firing of arms. It took a good amount of searching to find a wolf's tracks and even more diligence to tell those made fresh in the snow from the ones made days before. It was a task he found he was good at.

"Those are old," he told Percy. "Look, these are the fresh ones..."

"No they're not," Percy argued. "Look, these are made in line with those..."

"That matters not," James explained to him. "These are deeper and the snow around them is more a powder than smooth..."

"Your friend is correct, Percy. Very good, James," Onry enthused. "What a sharp eye you have!"

"Not so much sir," he disagreed. "I can't see as well far off."

"No man can," Onry said.

James opened his mouth to argue. It had, afterall, been told to him on several occasions that his eyesight was not up to the standard of the vision of most boys. It was a common problem of the eye to not see so far, at least according to the surgeon who had been his brother's friend. But whatever James may have wanted to say was stilled on his tongue as they heard, not far off, the howl of a lone wolf.

"Alright," Onry whispered excitedly, "now we're gaining! Gather round, we must plan..."

Nettley and Percy darted in but whereas James' familiar done with a sense of excitement, the former had done so with a distinct sense of nervousness about him. Gibbs, James noticed, seemed nearly unaffected save for the slight narrowing of his eyes. For his part, James simply turned his attention to their leader. Onry Witter stood taller than the rest of them and seemed rather composed for having only just heard a wolf's cry.

"What say you as to the animal's location, James?"

James looked one way, staring hard at the tracks. He followed those fresh with his eyes until his head had turned in the opposite direction. "This way."

"Northeast," said Onry with a curt nod. "Yes, that is my guess as well. From its call I'd say two leagues off through the trees..."

"Perhaps if we converge upon it..."

Onry frowned heavily at Nettley. "This is not an ambush! It is but one wolf, not a pack of them!"

"Quite right. My apologies."

"What makes ye say, Cap'n?"

"Well Mister Gibbs it's like this," said Onry, "I heard but one howl. We are following but one set of tracks. The pack of wolves that inhabit Tirwitter travel together, yes, but on the underbelly of the mountain far from here. Therefore it is my guess that we are only on the trail of one, singular wolf."

"But," said Percy, "what if it's one wolf meeting with its pack having come from another direction? Why else would it howl if not to other wolves?"

"A good question, my boy." Onry Witter's brow wrinkled. "For safety then we should perhaps proceed as Nettley suggested..."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank the boy."

Nettley turned stiffly towards Percy and treated him to a rather tight smile. "My_ thank_s, young sir."

"Oh it was nothin," said Percy, nonchalant as he readied his rifle. "Don't mention it."

After some budging and bickering, the five of them set off in the ways Onry Witter had directed them. Farthest west stalked Nettley. That distinct nervousness had returned to him, his piercing gaze switching from side to side as he crunched quietly through the brush. Gibbs, on the other hand, had taken up position far to the east and without as much reserve. Though cautious, and having muttered something about luck 'fore they'd started off, he was not so nervous as his companion Navyman. With Percy to his left and James to his right, Onry made his way straight ahead.

The way was through a thicket. All branches and bramble it was. Twice the feathers of Percy's arrows were snagged by bramble. Twigs snapped and ice crunched under their boots. A bird cawed and Nettley skittered across a patch of ice. James held his breath, waiting for the nervous man to cry out and warn the wolf of their presence. But other than the squelch his boots had made, Nettley stayed silent.

James' breath of relief huffed out in a stream of steam before him.

Though the distance was not so far it seemed to take an awful long time to get where they were going. Perhaps, James thought, it was his expectation of meeting the lone wolf. Furthermore, he suspected that he was for the first time not only expecting to spot their quarry–but anticipating it...

"There," Onry breathed.

And there it was, the wolf. James saw it with wide eyes. It was not so far from them–ten, maybe fifteen paces at the most–and was pacing atop a snowcapped log. A swift look around found that there were no other wolves in the vicinity. It was just the one wolf and it was yet unaware of their spying upon it...

Percy, though, was fidgeting. There was a click from his rifle. It picked up the wolf's ears as its tail flattened. The animal's head snapped at them. Yellow eyes narrowed and a snarl twisted its muzzle.

The wolf's tail thrashed.

"No," Nettley said, cocking his own rifle at the beast. "I think not!"

The wolf's snarl turned to a leer. It looked as though it might leap when from the brush sprang a grey body that could only be another wolf. It tore after a screaming Nettley, dodging the bullet Gibbs fired at it. The stout man shouted his curses and took off after them, only to be cut off by a third beast what circled him before chasing him in the other direction.

"Boys," the Great Goat breathed, not breaking eye contact with the remaining, grinning wolf, "back the way we came!"

"No!"

James gasped. "Percy!"

But his friend was already taking aim at the wolf. It grinned. A crack of gunfire from Percy's rifle seemed to set it off. It leapt from the log and made away through the trees laid before them.

Percy swore and tore after it.

James looked up at Onry Witter with wide eyes but took off after his friend before the man could tell him not to. A wise move, he decided when the man shouted after him. He leapt over the log and squeezed between two thick tree trunks. Another crack of gunfire brought his head sharply up and he saw that Percy had stopped ahead to shoot again.

"Percy!"

The boy did not even glance back at him. James swore. He tripped over a log and went sliding across a frozen patch of stream. The rifle end of his musket slid against the ice and James saw the sharp end of the bayonet slicing right for his face.

He gasped. The rifle thumped his shoulder and James ducked his head. He felt the edge of the blade graze the hair at the back of his neck.

Another blast sounded in the distance. James shot to his feet. He threw himself forward after his friend. He could see only a hint of Percy's red hair now, weaving in and out between the trees. A shout behind him turned James around and he saw, to his misery, a furious Onry Witter storming after the both of them. The gunshot and subsequent scream before them, however, turned James right back around.

"Percy!"

James' feet pounded then flew over the hard, unforgiving ground. Pebbles and bits of ice scattered in his wake. He heard them but paid them no heed. Only Percy was his concern.

That he no longer saw him gave James pause. He stopped by a tree and struggled to catch his breath. Pain sliced his chest. Gasping, he grabbed at his throat. If only he could force the air through it...

Another scream, this one raising gooseflesh all over James, forced him to move despite his condition. He followed it through the trees to a clearing. Just as he jumped over the last log, James realized that he was on the edge of a steep embankment.

"Hell," he wheezed as his feet slid out from under him.

Having learned his lesson he hoisted his musket up high and tucked it close to him as he rolled down the hill. Powdery snow clung to him as he went. When he rolled to a stop he stood and shook it off.

James' eyes narrowed on the scene ahead. Against the base of the mountain, his friend was pressed, petrified, to a sheet of ice. The wolf was grinning, pacing back and forth in front of Percy.

James lifted his musket.

The wolf reared around, advancing on Percy.

It snarled...

James let out the last breath he had to steady himself and pulled the trigger. Gunfire rang out in his ears. The blast threw him back onto his rear and the world above collapsed in on him, fading to black.

* * *

_**Author's Babble: **I really do have a good reason for neglecting all of this fic. No, really I do. It's my first semester of University after a five year hiatus from the realm of education._

_Still, I'm sorry for taking so long to update. Thanks everyone for reading. Thank you _ndmzero_ for dropping me a line. Your words encourage me to open up the documents and keep writing–even if it isn't for as long a time as before. Thank you, and thank you all for that, whether you review here or send off an email._


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